Like Jonah From The Whale
by Xenutia
Summary: Sequel to 'Let There Be Light'. Harper finds a way off Earth by stowing away on a hauler...unaware he has landed amongst pirates.
1. One

like_jonah_from_the_whale1

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** While I'd like to at least say the plot is mine, if not the characters and universe involved, I can't even say that. The idea of delving into Harper's past, and how he came into contact with Beka, is hardly exclusive to me. But this particular version of events is mine. The characters, ship, and other aspects of Andromeda's universe belong to Tribune, except Eric Guldavian, who's mine. Knowing my luck the show will tell its version before I get this finished, but oh well.  
**Rating:** It's an PG-13, probably. Some of the story involves violent scenes (not graphic, though), and the angst level probably deserves this rating. The subject matter isn't something I'd like little kids to read, but they'd probably be bored anyway.  
**Summary:** In a sense this is a sequel to Let There Be Light'. It's not essential to have read that as this takes up years after those events...but for anyone that read it, yeah, consider it a sequel. Another pretty awful chapter in Harper's life, but this time...will it have a happier ending?  
**Spoilers:** I'm not aware of any, if anybody finds anything I should have warned them about let me know.  
  


***** 1 *****  


  
It was going to drive him insane.  
  
Drip...drip...drip...an incessant beat, tattooing the deck where each drop fell, kicking up a fine rain of spray which touched onto his face in cold, hard spatters.   
  
Drip...drip...drip...if this was their idea of torture, then it was a good one. Every drum of the water leaking from the tank above him struck like a hammer, driving a nail under his nerves, leaving a fine dew on his lips. Harper licked them absently, so far beyond the point of thirst that he cared nothing for the lost dignity of the action. If he had ever even possessed such a luxury as dignity in the first place, something he seriously doubted. He was thirsty, starved, tired, and every muscle ached with the kind of deep, damaging pain that would not be fixed simply with rest. His clothes hung tattered from his thin shoulders and scrawny limbs, stained with not a few fading patches of blood and grime under the new. His hair, the last time he had seen a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the aft cabin, had been so dirty it was impossible to tell its original colour.  
  
Not the worst state he had ever been in, not when he counted all the broken bones and pain ridden fevers he had taken as a child, but perhaps the worst situation he had been in since the Magog attack six years ago. The one that killed his father, and left so many of his friends and aunts and uncles maimed or dead along with him. He wondered, not completely without purpose, whether this new kind of purgatory could be justified simply by its being his route from earth.   
  
He had tugged uselessly at the rough ropes binding his hands in the first couple of hours down here, but that had long since been abandoned as useless, succeeding only in chafing the skin from his already raw wrists. His ankles, too were tied, and as he had come aboard this crate without notice and barefoot, they had fared no better and hurt just as much. Fresh bruises mottled his torso, and an ominous, sharp pain in his skeletal ribs suggested that they had been fractured by the crack from the butt of the freight Captain's rifle.  
  
He had once thought that the only way off earth was as a slave or a corpse, and at the time, he had been right. But this one time, he had almost believed he had lucked out - a cargo ship had landed near his camp, felling the trees about the perimeter to feed the rich's taste for real wooden furniture in their penthouse offices and skyscrapers. Things he had only heard of, but never seen. And at the sight of that ship, Harper had felt the first beginnings of this insane plan for a way off that God-forsaken rock. By the time the sound of high-powered chain saws and laser cutters had begun over the camp, the plan had been completely formed, and he had snuck unnoticed into the hauler's open cargo bays in the clothes he stood in. He had felt no remorse at leaving without saying goodbye - the last of the people he might have owed that to had died some months before in the harsh winter that had just passed.  
  
He had snuck as far back as he could, hiding between the logs already stored there in regimental lines, getting splinters in every inch of unprotected skin. The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet, particularly, had suffered. But that hadn't mattered, not when the promise of a one-way ticket out of there was in the offing. If he could just stay undiscovered until they put down to refuel at the nearest space dock or orbital station, again things he had heard of and seen flexis of but never experienced in the flesh, then he could sneak out, and be gone before they ever knew he was there. A faint warning bell in the back of his psyched and terrified mind had told him how foolish this was, that they could be in space and not dock anywhere for days, even weeks, that he had no food and no water with him...but in the end, seeing the alternative, that had been a gamble he was willing to take. Starving here, and quickly, was better than staying there to be taken for Magog food.  
  
He stayed low when the ship's crew loaded more logs into the hold, listening with baited, anxious breath to their faint voices, daring to laugh and joke about this rat infested hole as they worked. While he agreed with the names they called it, the idea that they would laugh about the conditions they found here sickened him beyond belief. He liked a joke as much as the next man, and the truth be known, more - but there were some things that just weren't funny.  
  
The loading process continued for some hours, and Harper could do nothing but lie still with cramp in his entire body and splinters needling his skin, and watch as the light died in the western sky. The sun boiled low on the horizon in a poisonous red, colour bleeding into the clouds in a wavering corona, and he watched it with a horrible apathy he had not expected of his last sunset on earth. He would probably never see it again, but it meant nothing to him. There were a lot of things he would never see again, like his parents and his cousins and all the friends he had lost over the years, but it didn't matter when the taste in his mouth was so sweet; he was leaving earth. With that in mind, he almost wanted to laugh himself.  
  
It was fully dark and the sounds of insects were buzzing noisily in the night when the crew returned and sealed the hold. He felt a sudden, intense moment of claustrophobia, but it passed, and swiftly. The darkness in the hold was absolute, and the air was heavy with sap and the woody aroma of the bark lying close to him. There was a burnt understaste to the scent, the residue of laser cutters on the stripped trees.  
  
The time after that was little more than a hazy dream - if not quite a nightmare, then prevented from being so only by the promise of arriving at civilisation soon. The darkness, the airlessness despite the slight conditioning down here, the uncomfortable tightness of the space he was wedged into, all made it seem endless and without reprieve. He was vaguely aware that he was hungry, but pushed the problem away.   
  
It had not even occurred to him until after takeoff that many cargo holds were neither air conditioned nor heated, but he was lucky; he guessed these haulers carried live plants and maybe animals from time to time, as well as wood. He didn't like to consider the obvious implications, that these haulers also carried slaves.  
  
He managed to sleep for much of the time, if only to take his mind off things; you didn't live on earth for twenty years without learning to sleep easily in uncomfortable conditions and in the face of hunger, thirst, or fear. He could switch off at will, and it was a blessing he clung to now like a drowning man clutching a buoy. But the hours he spent awake were hell.  
  
It must have been almost twenty-four hours after their takeoff when the lack of air finally got to him. His lungs burned like twin torches in his chest, and he was feeling dizzy and light-headed from oxygen deprivation. He tried for a long time to control it, to endure it, knowing full well that even the slightest movement would cause the cylindrical logs to roll and clatter in a noisy chain reaction that would alert the crew to his presence; but in the end, it was too much, and he cautiously edged out of the gap he had crammed himself into.  
  
His legs screamed with acid pain as he straightened, stiff and unbending after so long in one position, and the slivers of wood in his feet made it hard to walk. He would have to tip-toe over the logs to make it to the air vent pushing recycled oxygen between its bars, and would have many more to curse about before he was through. A small price to pay, for fresh air, for a chance to clear his head and stretch his legs and get the woody, dusty taste out of his mouth.  
  
He stood still a moment, balanced precariously on the topmost layer of logs, the bark biting his soles and the darkness making him dizzy. All sense of direction was lost, and though he held in mind the interior he had memorised idly throughout the long day as the ship was loaded, that did him no good when he couldn't see. He waited a moment, feeling the slight rasp of air circulating the hot, almost desert like hold, trying to sense its direction from the feel of it on his arms and face. It was coming from his left, he decided. Faint, barely a whisper, hardly enough to support any life in here much less a human, but undeniably there. Feeling cautiously with arms outstretched and toes probing gently for purchase in front of him, Harper made his way in the direction of the vent. The rush of air grew stronger, encouraging him to continue, telling him he was going the right way.  
  
At last his reaching fingers struck metal, and the murmur became a blast, oxygen churning from the conditioning vent like a gale. He breathed deeply, hauling great lungfuls of the crisp, sweet air into his tired lungs, his light-headedness escalating from the sudden flood of oxygen. He wanted to laugh from sheer chemical elation, but clamped down on it. Hard. If he was caught, he didn't know what these men would do. They may be reputable haulers, cargo carriers, and would only turn him over to the nearest dock - but the presence of air and heat in the hold, and its implications, hadn't left him. The evidence suggested they were pirates with a history of transporting life cargo. If they found him, there would be nothing to stop them selling him.  
  
Reluctantly, Harper breathed his fill and turned away to negotiate his route back to his hiding place. Assuming he could find it in the dark. His feet were bleeding now but he barely noticed, heady with terror, hunger, and sudden oxidisation.   
  
He misjudged the effect that air had had on him. Halfway back across the rolling carpet of logs, Harper stumbled.  
  
The noise of clattering tree trunks rang away into silence, breaking the patient burr of the engines, and he froze, waiting with his heart hammering in his mouth to see if anybody would come.  
  


*******  


  
He lie here now, eyes straining into the darkness, water spattering his face and bruises aching like fire all down his body, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to leave his hiding place like that. He could have made this work; could have stayed in secret until the ship went to port, and been away, been free. Instead, he had sold himself for a few struggling mouthfuls of air.  
  
The noise had alerted the crew almost immediately, and vicious, glaring lights had flared to life overhead and illuminated him like a white marble among black. His first instinct had been to talk back, his runaway mouth and joking facade attempting to smooth the situation; but if he had had any doubts about the nature of this ship and its crew, he had none now.   
  
The captain was a man in his thirties, a ship born human by the look of him, reaching as high as six foot two and filled out across the shoulders and chest like an athlete. A vivid tattoo of a rose emblazoned his right bicep. There was nothing weak or sickly about him, or his crew, but instead subtle indications of the opposite; they all wore leather and heavy gun belts, their weapons bared and ready in their hands, and the eyes of one long-haired, dark-skinned man were milky with flash. For a long moment the six of them stood around him in a semi-circle, poised like a firing squad, the tall, bronze skinned, square jawed captain centre to them all. Six pairs of eyes bore into him like a nano welder slicing metal. Then, without warning, the captain laughed.   
  
Harper watched him tentatively, finding the raucous noise spreading amongst the pirates disquieting rather than soothing.   
  
It's alright, lads, the captain declared, shouldering the wicked looking rifle that had been aimed at Harper. It's just some mudfoot kid.  
  
Harper took exception to the label, true as it was, but bit his tongue. Better they think him a defenceless mudfoot kid than a serious threat to them.  
  
The laughter died out, and four of the remaining crew holstered their weapons. The last kept his trained on Harper at all times, squinting to keep his target locked. What you doing here, kid? the captain asked, coming further into the hold towards Harper. I know you're stowing away and looking at that mud hole we just came from I don't blame you...but I think what I meant to say was who the hell said you could hitch a ride on my ship?  
  
Harper had been tentatively optimistic when the man began, thinking he may do no worse than being put ashore at the first stop after all - their cargo seemed legitimate and he would pose no threat to them - but as the captain finished, his heart clamped with fear again.  
  
I, uh...I thought it looked like fun?  
  
Their blank expressions made him rethink, and quickly.  
  
I was gonna ask but you were busy?  
  
Still no response, only a slight narrowing of the captain's previously mirthful eyes.  
  
I, uh...I fell in? And when I woke up we were in space? Two of the men closed in on him, and he squeaked: This isn't working, is it?  
  
the captain said pleasantly, as his men captured the small, unarmed boy. No, it's really not.  
  
The rest had happened quickly, and abruptly. Within moments he was caught. They bound him, clubbed him out of his struggling with the butts of their weapons, and threw him in this small, dark aft boiler room until they were ready to dispose of him, not sharing with him their plans for doing so.  
  
The steady drip from the water tank had begun almost immediately, and counted down the seconds since then, slowly ticking off the hours, punctuating his thoughts. Except it was really only a single thought, being thrown up in his mind like driftwood tossed onto the shore by the tide. He had been right, after all; the only way a mudfoot like him ever escaped earth was as a corpse or a slave. He wondered, with a sick, churning sensation knotting his empty stomach, which it would be. The hours passed so slowly they seemed to move backward, streaming past him like the vapour trail in a ship's wake.  
  
To Be Continued...  



	2. Two

like_jonah_from_the_whale2

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia**  


  
  
**Disclaimer:** While I'd like to at least say the plot is mine, if not the characters and universe involved, I can't even say that. The idea of delving into Harper's past, and how he came into contact with Beka, is hardly exclusive to me. But this particular version of events is mine. The characters, ship, and other aspects of Andromeda's universe belong to Tribune, except Eric Guldavian, who's mine. Knowing my luck the show will tell its version before I get this finished, but oh well.   
**Rating:** It's an PG-13, probably. Some of the story involves violent scenes (not graphic, though), and the angst level probably deserves this rating. The subject matter isn't something I'd like little kids to read, but they'd probably be bored anyway.  
**Summary:** In a sense this is a sequel to Let There Be Light'. It's not essential to have read that as this takes up years after those events...but for anyone that read it, yeah, consider it a sequel. Another pretty awful chapter in Harper's life, but this time...will it have a happier ending?  
**Spoilers:** I'm not aware of any, if anybody finds anything I should have warned them about let me know.  
  


***** 2 *****  


  
He slept, but fitfully, a thin slice of his awareness awake and alert at all times, the rest of him slipping in and out of a delirium that was neither restful or unpleasant. At least, in those half dozing moments, he couldn't think about how parched his throat was or how sore he felt lying rigid and bruised on an unyielding deck.  
  
They hadn't been back, not a single one of them, and the doubt, the notion that perhaps they had no plan for him at all and simply intended to leave him out of sight and out of mind for the duration of their journey was not a nice one. He had no idea how long that journey would be, or what would be waiting at the end of it.  
  
His stomach had growled with acid earlier, but had fallen silent, past being merely hungry. This, at least, wasn't something that bothered him so much, as he was used to it, almost expecting it. The bruises and cuts, too, were old news to him, even though they were fresh and throbbed like a heartbeat under his skin. What bothered him, and it was a silly thing, was that dripping water, and the heavy rattle coming from inside the tank.  
  
He knew what the problem was, that the wasting water from the cooling tank was causing the pipes inside to overheat, the metal expanding until they grated together, probably wearing their sides thin with the friction. If the tank was not patched up and refilled soon, the pipes would probably burst, shorting out their engines. And because he knew instinctively what the problem was and was prevented from fixing it, he was bothered by it. He wondered where their engineer was, or if they even had one, sure that even the most green and wet eared novices knew to check for leaks. It was one of the first things he had learned back in his uncle's workshop, fixing up very basic machinery such as land haulers and heating systems...he had since picked up quite a lot more, keeping his ear always to the ground, collecting information...  
  
He quite literally had his ear to the ground now, and it was starting to hurt, but with his hands tied he couldn't reach to rub it. He could feel the thrum and burr of the ship's engines vibrating through the deck, almost alive, a living, breathing hum. That was it, what had always sounded so pleasant and comforting about machines, and engines in particular...it sounded like the ship was breathing.  
  
He had heard rumours of sentient ships, once, ships with Artificial Intelligence unparalleled by any vessels these days, and though his peers and his uncle invariably laughed them off as fables or else as extinct and the technology lost, Harper had secretly harboured another idea...that what was lost, could be found.   
  
The trek continued without a break and he dozed again, falling into vivid dreams where the ship spoke to him in a female vibrato that conjured up visions of the sort Harper indulged in whenever the stress became too much. And slowly, the doze descended into sleep.  
  


*******  


  
Harper was woken forcefully by a brutish shake of the shoulder, opening his eyes to see light and the leering face of the captain looming over him.   
  
Get up, he said, gruffly. Harper blinked into the flashlight shining into his eyes, still in the clutch of those unexpectedly pleasant dreams, and barely aware of where he was or who it was that had woken him.  
  
he said, groggily. I'm coming, Mom.   
  
The captain gave him another, more vicious, shake, smiling pleasantly. A crocodile smile. I said get up. I've untied your legs, you can walk.  
  
The captain pulled Harper to his feet before he had a chance to attempt it alone, and urged him through the small, low doorway leading to the midsection. There four of the other crew members were assembled in a circle, presumably leaving the last to pilot the ship in the cockpit.  
  
The captain pushed him down into an empty chair, and took the last himself, lacing his gnarled, brown fingers together with his elbows on his knees.  
  
What's your name, kid? he asked. It was put without anger, and without any real interest; an afterthought to the real purpose of the proceedings.   
  
Seamus Harper, he replied, seeing no reason to deny it. It wouldn't matter to them what his name was; it was a formality, and nothing more.  
  
The captain nodded, blandly.   
  
Do I get a name now? Harper dared. He was screwed anyway, it wouldn't matter one iota if he asked a few questions of his own in return. Although the answer would tell him everything he needed to know about their plans for him.  
  
That's not important, the captain returned.  
  
Harper breathed an inward sigh of relief; whatever they were going to do, they weren't going to kill him, judging from the man's reticence. It would make no difference what he knew if his only destination from here had been the airlock.   
  
The captain leaned back and took a small box from an open locker behind him, extracting a small, circular metal object from it. It was a disc, perhaps two inches across, with an elongated, wire encrusted spike sticking out from the back. He rolled it restlessly between those work worn fingers, eyeing Harper thoughtfully as he did so. Instinctively, Harper gulped.  
  
You know what this is, kid? Mr.Harper, I should say?  
  
Thankfully, Harper did. Yeah. It's a cerebral port. An interface. Whatever you wanna call it. It's a jack-in ride on the roller coaster of every machine in the quadrant, correct? He thought fleetingly of the voice in his dream, the legends of sentient, mostly female ships who interfaced with their engineers to complete repairs. Taken like that, Harper's naturally perverted mind insisted on calling the port a Joystick', privately. Those puppies cost an arm.  
  
I have no use for arms, the nameless wonder opposite Harper replied, dryly. You whole, on the other hand... He straightened, placing the cerebral port on his thigh. Do you know what we're doing on this trip, kid? Of course you don't, what am I thinking.  
  
Well I highly suspect that it's not just about wood, Harper put sarcastically, feeling a little more secure that his life was in no immediate danger. But he hadn't liked the implications of the captain's whole' statement, not one bit. You got me, give me a clue.  
  
One of the pirates moved to hit him, but the captain halted his crew mate with a wave of his hand. His eyes never left Harper's. No. Can't have any bruising to his head, especially now. Later.  
  
_Can't have bruising? What the hell is going on here?  
  
_We're a data convoy, the captain explained. This port was going to be fitted to one of my crew to carry blueprints from our employer to his customer. He doesn't trust direct data transfer links, they get intercepted too easily. But the installation procedure is dangerous, and ideally I would choose not to risk a member of my crew. He smiled again, his undeniably handsome and deceptively calm face responding only in part to the gesture. Not when I have an alternative right here.  
  
There was that smile again. Seeing it, seeing the ominous size of the port, and of course seeing where this discussion was leading, Harper gulped.  
  


*******  


  
He was taken back to the aft cabin, where the drip had now formed a pool beneath the tank; but this time, he was left unbound, and the pirate who shoved him through the door left him a light on and thrust a strange, square packet of some kind into his hands, and a water bottle. The packet turned out to contain some sort of high energy protein bar, a little too chewy for Harper to really enjoy it, but nevertheless food of a kind. He wolfed it down and later regretted having eaten too quickly.  
  
Too worried and rested to sleep, Harper sat with his back against one cold metal wall and played back the conversation in his head. One thing he was sure of, despite the captain's attempts to imply otherwise; this was data smuggling. Whatever those blueprints were, they weren't legal, and shouldn't be heading - wherever they were heading. He assumed the pick-up hadn't occurred yet; since a port was effectively useless without a neural chemical housing and an organic brain to power it, the information couldn't already be downloaded to it. This ship was heading for the pick-up point, and there...  
  
...there, unless he could somehow think his way out of this one, the port would be fitted into his neck and the blueprints loaded into his brain, making him a moving target for every law enforcement official and bounty hunter from here to the next galaxy.  
  
But would having this port fitted be such a bad thing? Blueprints aside, bounty hunters aside, he hadn't been lying or exaggerating when he said they cost an arm. He had heard tales of people selling organs to raise the cash for installation...and now he was being offered one, free. He had no illusions that the captain intended to kill him when his use expired, and no real desire to have wanted data in his head...but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He had to assume there was a chance, just a chance, that the captain would believe he was dumb enough to buy the legitimate cargo' excuse and maybe let him live, once the job was done.  
  
Head tilted up to the grey ceiling, his ears selectively blocking the ringing drill of falling water out of his brain, Harper laughed, silently. If he played this right, if he kept on his toes and played dumb and served his purpose - to a point - he might not only get out of here alive...  
  
...he might make it off this ship with a cerebral port that would allow him to find a job anywhere in the galaxy.  
  
He spent the next few hours playing out multiple scenarios for escape, and thereafter gainful employment via his new cerebral port, in his mind, occasionally allowing his thoughts to include women. Women loved men with good jobs, or else dangerous ones - and they didn't come more dangerous than data smuggling. For the first time since he climbed aboard this ship and hid amongst the official' cargo, Harper truly felt like he stood a chance for a decent future, after all. All he had to do was play along for a while, and survive this one last dangerous stretch.  
  
He was startled from his somewhat colourful daydreams by the grate and swish of the cabin door opening, and the long-haired, dark-skinned man Harper had noted earlier entered, his weapon drawn, followed by two of the others. This time, it seemed, the captain had left the dirty work to his lackeys.  
  
Harper had intended in his quiet, contemplative hours (and he didn't have many of those) to play along nicely and not to fight it; but the sight of these three, towering men with their firearms and their armoured clothing, one of them still clearly jazzed on flash and another missing one eye altogether, made him back instinctively into the farthest, shadowy corner, flinching away as they grabbed his arms and pulled him towards the door. A rag was stuffed in his mouth and a blanket, smelling musty and old and stale with unwashed months (something he himself was guilty of) was thrown over his head, stifling him and tangling around his thrashing arms and legs; then he was lifted bodily from the deck, thick hands around his sore wrists and ankles, and carried away.  
  
The rag tasted foul, choking him, making him gag, and he prayed he didn't throw up because he would more than likely choke on it with his mouth blocked like this. The blanket wrapped around his limbs and pinned them down heavily. Eventually, he stopped his struggling, and remained quiet.   
  
Blind and with no sense of direction without his feet on the floor, Harper found himself paying attention to the sounds that came; the whoosh of a heavier door, probably an airlock...boots on deck as they carried him forward...a muffled laugh from one of the men, the sort of high, insane chuckle which could only come from the flash fried one of them. Harper fought back an urgent surge of panic, hearing that airlock; maybe the captain had changed his mind after all, maybe they were going to throw him out of the airlock and watch him suffocate. He kicked and squirmed once more, futilely.  
  
Then he was given a heavy blow to the head, and heard nothing else.  
  


*******  


  
He awoke in a gloomy, saturating room, the air dull with smoke and hot with fumes; he was staring woozily at an expanse of greying ceiling, the only illumination from a fluorescent bar along one wall throwing grandiose shadows across it like blackened Magog claws. It felt as though they were reaching for him.  
  
Harper coughed, gagging on the residue of the rag in his mouth and fuzzing his swollen tongue, and met resistance as he arched upwards from the surface he lie on. He was strapped down at the wrists and ankles, held prone to the table under that glaring eye of light. Shadows moved across it, silhouettes against the ceiling, bringing their own associations; of one night surrounded by flames, so long ago now. But these, he could see, were human forms, drifting around him like circling predators far too much like the Magog for comfort. Then, one approached.  
  
A face he hadn't seen before loomed over him, a raised hand wielding a long hypodermic needle. Harper tugged at the straps and struggled at the sight of that needle, at the length and gleam of it, at the uncertain suspicion of where that needle was destined. It made the sensitive patch of skin beneath his ear swarm and crawl at the thought, and he yelled, uselessly, for them to let him go.  
  
Then the needle slipped through the tender spot like a knife through butter, and it was lights out for Seamus Zelazny Harper.  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Three

like_jonah_from_the_whale3

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** While I'd like to at least say the plot is mine, if not the characters and universe involved, I can't even say that. The idea of delving into Harper's past, and how he came into contact with Beka, is hardly exclusive to me. But this particular version of events is mine. The characters, ship, and other aspects of Andromeda's universe belong to Tribune, except Eric Guldavian, who's mine. Knowing my luck the show will tell its version before I get this finished, but oh well.  
**Rating:** It's an PG-13, probably. Some of the story involves violent scenes (not graphic, though), and the angst level probably deserves this rating. The subject matter (especially in this chapter and the end of the previous one, during surgery') isn't something I'd like little kids to read, but they'd probably be bored anyway.  
**Summary:** In a sense this is a sequel to Let There Be Light'. It's not essential to have read that as this takes up years after those events...but for anyone that read it, yeah, consider it a sequel. Another pretty awful chapter in Harper's life, but this time...will it have a happier ending?  
**Spoilers:** I'm not aware of any, if anybody finds anything I should have warned them about let me know. There are nods to some episodes in later chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers.  
  


***** 3 *****  


  
Fresia Galla was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a reputable port of commerce. There were legitimate haulers and engineering docks and refuelers here, of course, and many of them were, if not oblivious to the half of their populace who existed beneath the system, then separate from it. The mysterious owners of the docking station allowed the above-board dealers their space, happy to use their business practices as a smokescreen for the underground drugs trafficking and stolen ship refitting. It was a convenient existence for all.  
  
Beka had no problem with either half of the population, although for the purposes of this trip she was strictly going straight'. Rev found the illegal undercurrent deeply saddening and had bound her with a million persistent promises and more than a handful of warning anecdotes before they docked, just to make sure she didn't stray away from their current, legitimate deal in favour of an easier one. All it took was a brief moment of recall for Beka to agree with him; she didn't want to wind up like Rafe.  
  
So...did you figure out who intercepted our transmission yet? Beka asked as they strolled along the gritty, gloomy promenade, passing open fronted bars and service stations that reeked of alcohol and engine oil, respectively. Her hand hovered possessively over her weapon holster, ready to draw, fingers splayed and itching. Her eyes had barely lighted on the Magog since they left the Maru; they darted through the shadows and between, looking for signs of trouble.  
  
If you go seeking trouble, you can be sure that trouble will find you, Rev said in return, a hint of a smile peeping through his facial fur, the bark-like brown skin crinkling with amusement.  
  
I just don't trust this place. And neither would you if you'd been here before, she shot back.  
  
Alas, I never had the pleasure before. It is proving most...enlightening. The smile hadn't left, but it matured a little, displaying a hint of his sorrow at these people's wayward attitudes. They were for the most part dirty, scarred, ill, and their movements, in the majority, were stealthy and quiet. They didn't walk; they skulked.  
  
Yeah? Wait till one of em enlightens' you of your wallet, Beka said.  
  
Rev turned his head down, hiding his continued amusement. To answer your question, Beka, no, I don't know who intercepted us. But the trail was quite clear; it originated from this station.  
  
Beka shrugged. Well, I sure hope you're right about that, Rev. Randall Stamp isn't paying us to deliver an interesting story of how we lost his blueprints.  
  
Rev sighed, allowed himself an indulgent laugh, and followed the headstrong young woman into the crowd. Despite her checkered past, there was something undeniably direct and to-the-point about Beka Valentine that he had found, in the past couple of years, he liked.  
  
Beka and Rev were supposed to deliver Stamp's blueprints to a woman named Ambrosia Price, located somewhere in the Favran System. They had entered orbit around Favra Prime and keyed in her co-ordinates to download when the stream was interrupted, effectively re-directing the blueprints to an unknown source; unknown, of course, until Rev's background check led them here, to Fresia Galla. The trail was vague, but it seemed to emanate from the lower decks. Beka led her crew of one there with frightening resolve and an even more frightening lack of forethought. Rev honestly believed her only plan lie within the reach of those twitching fingers, a direct and final approach, the gun in her holster. Rev had other ideas, but these he kept to himself until the time came. He would not condone senseless violence when it had yet to be proven unavoidable.  
  
So, Rev, with all this black-market background are you regretting ever joining the Maru?  
  
With you piloting her, Beka, there is never a dull moment.  
  
Beka laughed, abruptly, and slapped the back of her free hand lightly against his robed shoulder. Man, I knew there was a reason I took you on. Humour and hero-worship. What more could a captain want?  
  
Perhaps, some idea of where her cargo went. But I suspect you have already taken that into consideration.  
  
I'm not going to shoot anyone, Rev, she bridled. Then, under her breath in a mumble he was not intended to hear: Not unless they shoot first.  
  
Rev nodded knowingly, and followed.  
  
In the lower decks, the crowd was dense, and the air thick with smoke and steam, heavy with oil fumes and gas. The deck was dirty and often slippery with pools of what Beka assumed to be oil, but which Rev knew by the smell to be blood. Something inside of him would always recognise that smell, and thrive on it for one blissful moment of unrestraint before his sense returned, making him shameful of the passing hunger. What he wished to banish would only ever, at best, be repressed.  
  
Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like our new Beka complained, as a ragged, bent old woman with matted hair and missing teeth pushed past her, leaving an unpleasant after-taste in the air.  
  
I don't know, a voice said from behind them. Why do you get that feeling?  
  
They turned, Rev out of curiosity, but he could see the voice meant more than that to Beka. An array of emotions passed fleetingly across her face before she settled on one, and he swiftly struggled to catalogue them. The first, surprise, gave way to pleasure, wistful reminiscence, and finally to downright anger. But the anger faltered, and in the end, the pleasure won through. Rev noted this last with a faint nod, unable to help it. The man was tall, broad, perhaps (although Rev was a poor judge of humans' ages) in his mid thirties, with flaxen hair and a broad, charming smile. A single, ornate rose embroidered the smooth skin of his right arm, a strange token for anyone willing to set foot aboard this station.  
  
Beka Valentine. Who'd have thought I'd see you here?  
  
I don't know, Eric, who'd have thought? she smiled back. She turned briefly to Rev, including him in their greetings. Eric, this is my science officer, Rev Bem. Rev, this is Eric Guldavian. An old friend of mine.  
  
Now, now, Beka, Eric smiled, flashing startling white teeth and a broad grin which had no place on this station. You know damn well neither of us is _that_ old.  
  
So what are _you_ doing here, Eric? Still looking for the Big Score?  
  
I could ask the same thing about you. But this is really no place to be discussing these things. My ship is in dock, would you join me for dinner later? Your friend, too, of course. And Eric offered Rev a small smile.  
  
Beka replied promptly.   
  
Rev wavered. Regrettably, we are here on business. It seems only right that I continue with our task to allow Ms.Valentine some free time. It is well deserved, he said, finally. He hoped the excuse was opaque and subtle enough that this human would not pick up on it, or its reasons. But Rev suspected that Beka wished to be alone with her old friend'.  
  
Eric beamed at Beka, and gestured the way ahead with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. This way, lady, he grinned.  
  
I warned you about that, Eric, Beka laughed. Nobody calls me a lady and gets away with it.  
  


*******  


  
Harper awoke to acute discomfort for the second time in as many days...or had it been longer? The endless, unbroken hours, first stowed away in the hold and later locked in this dark little cabin and lastly under the awful, syrupy glare of that butcher's light, had stretched on with no way to measure them. But one thing he had been able to measure, albeit with no real degree of accuracy; it had been some time before he passed out.   
  
His dreams had been swooping, silent, bearing down on his unconscious hours like a bird of prey, wings beating the air like silk fans. Glimpses, flashes of the evening past he had done his best to forget, like so many things, blinks of horror in the darkness...like single colour frames in a black and white display, flashing by almost too quickly to see.   
  
...a needle, first pinching against his skin, cold and surgical, the pinch gnawing away until it became a sharp, very real pain, thin metal sliding into his neck like he was butter...the table opposite, an array of surgical implements aligned in regimental rows on a dirty blue cloth...  
  
Harper shook himself. He was awake now; he could choose not to think about those things, if he wanted to. It was the reason he hated sleep, and put it off every night for as long as he could manage...because sleep meant relinquishing his control over his memories. Sometimes he was lucky and the nightmares didn't come; other times, he would wake up in a tangled puddle of blankets and chill, stale sweat.  
  
His situation came back to him immediately, from the instant he woke. He hadn't survived twenty years on earth by being slow to catch on. He was lying on a pile of threadbare blankets in the same aft cabin, the lights on but low, and his neck felt as if it were on fire. He tried to sit up, but abandoned the attempt when a wave of dizziness not unlike vertigo overcame him, and he let his heavy head fall back to the deck, fighting not to heave. There was nothing in his stomach worth throwing up, but the sensation still came, and showed no sign of passing.  
  
Lying as still as he could, Harper raised tentative fingers to his screaming neck and explored the area that was hurting so badly. It was bandaged, a heavy square of gauze or some such thing taped over the inflamed wound. Whatever they had done after he passed out from the needle, and no matter how badly or uncleanly, his wish had come true. It may get infected or he may be killed by bounty hunters for the information stored in there, but it was there. It was his, and no-one could remove it now.   
  
He had a port. Finally, he had a chance to make something of his life.   
  
Just when they thought it was all over, he pulls himself out of the slump, Harper muttered weakly, a slow smile taking over his face for the first time in what felt like forever. It felt good to have something to smile about again. His cousin Declan had once told him that sometimes, when there was nothing to laugh about, you had to make something. You had to find a reason. Maybe Harper had found his, right here.  
  


*****  
  
**

The drip had lessened, he noticed. Maybe the tank was empty by now. Maybe their next jump to slipstream would tear the psychos into itty bitty pieces. So long as he wasn't still onboard when that happened, well, he sure as hell wasn't going to be shedding any tears.  
  
Harper had lain listening to the hum of the engines and the increasing rattle of the pipes for some time, unable to sit or stand without wanting to vomit. Whatever they had injected him with, it had left him feeling giddy and disoriented, and after two hours or so it only just seemed to be wearing off. A part of him wanted to know how many people had undergone that little operation on the station before, but a bigger, saner part told him it wouldn't be a good idea to know anyway. The question wasn't how many had tried; the question was how many had survived it. How many had gotten away without infection.  
  
That was his danger, if there was one to pick out amongst the many. His immune system had been battered into non-existence, one disease or cold or food poisoning after another killing his white blood cells, maiming his ability to eliminate invading cells. If this got infected, and judging by the dingy conditions it had been installed in that was likely, then it would probably kill him.  
  
But why was he worrying about that? It was too late to think such things now, and if it happened there was nothing he could do to stop it. He should be worrying about the captain of this ship, and where they might be headed. Most of all, what these blueprints were, who wanted them, and why.  
  
He could sense them in the back of his mind, he fancied. It was early days and the connections between his brain and the port were sluggish, the relays only barely exchanging information; he couldn't view' the blueprints or even determine what they were without jacking into a computer of some kind. It would be some time and take some serious practice before he mastered even the simplest of the equipment's functions. But he could feel them sitting there, unopened and ominous, like a parcel that may contain a bomb. Just waiting to be delivered.  
  
He was disturbed from his rationalising by a shuddering, jarring force tearing through the ship. It quaked, metal grinding darkly on metal, and then abated, bolting back to normal abruptly enough to send him reeling back against the wall. His stomach flipped and knotted, and his head screamed, wanting to throw up despite his empty gut, but he clamped one hand over his mouth and another to his belly, willing the sensation and the dizziness away, and slowly, dimly, he regained the little control he had had before it happened. Somewhere, but distant, a siren was screeching incoherently. The squealing of the ship's hull had ceased, but the rusty, clattering squall of the pipes in the tank across from him continued to wail in the sudden calm.  
  
He looked up at the swishing, uneven glide of the door, obviously in bad need of maintenance, and he wondered again if they even had a engineer on this crate. He was about to ask the question of the crew man that entered, but when he saw the long hair and milky eyes and the jittering twitch in the man's quick step, he withdrew it, quickly. Flash fryers were not usually up for polite conversation.  
  
The man ignored him lying on the floor and went directly to the leaking tank, muttering under his breath impatiently as he unlatched the tank's cover, and looked inside. Harper waited with baited breath for the realisation to kick in.  
  
The man peered in, growled, and in one smooth, drug-enhanced reflex, turned and flung something towards Harper. The wrench struck the wall with an echoing clang only inches from his bandaged ear, and Harper sucked in his breath, terrified, and cringed back into the corner as far as the cabin's walls would allow.  
  
Should he say something? He had never been good at math, except the kind which saved him money, but this was one equation it would be difficult to miss, or ignore. He had been looking for a way off this crate, once the deal was done, some way to convince the captain not to kill him. They needed this tank fixed and he knew how to fix it, he had known all along what was wrong and what would happen. It was only a matter, now, of whether he was brave enough, or desperate enough, to speak.  
  
Excuse me?  
  
The man turned white, filmy eyes on him, staring from them with no indication of receptiveness on his grizzled face. It was hard to make the distinction between flash and cataracts, that same misty texture and blank, directionless gaze...but it would be fatal to confuse the two. Cataracts blinded; flash, if anything, made a person see even more than what was really there.  
  
I couldn't help but notice you having a little problem with your coolant tank there, and uh, well, if you don't mind me saying so...you kinda suck. _Way to go, Einstein. Maybe next time you can insult his mother. _  
  
And if I were, I can't see it's any of your business, the man hissed. What're you gonna do, kid? Patch it up with bubble gum?  
  
I was thinkin' of saving your butt, but I guess if you don't want my help, well, who am I to argue?  
  
The man tilted his head thoughtfully at that, and the grim, volatile shadow lying on his scarred face lifted, a little; but suspiciously, all the same. You're an engineer? A little mudfoot brat like you? Now why the hell don't I believe you?  
  
Only one way to find out, Harper insisted. Of course, I can't be trusted and I'll probably blow you sky-high, but hey, I'm on this box of bolts too...and it don't look to me like you got a lot of choice.   
  
The man stared at him, a decision resting on his lips but left, for a moment, unsaid.  
  
Harper sat rigid and defiant, chin lifted challengingly, feeding and thriving on the sudden rush of confidence pulsing through his weakened body, and stared back.  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
Watch out for a legendary first meeting in part 4!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Four

like_jonah_from_the_whale4

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** While I'd like to at least say the plot is mine, if not the characters and universe involved, I can't even say that. The idea of delving into Harper's past, and how he came into contact with Beka, is hardly exclusive to me. But this particular version of events is mine. The characters, ship, and other aspects of Andromeda's universe belong to Tribune, except Eric Guldavian and the _Magnus, _which are mine. Knowing my luck the show will tell its version before I get this finished, but oh well.  
**Rating:** PG-13. I'm still not sure how US ratings work. Where I am (the UK) it would be a 15, which feels about right to me.  
**Summary:** In a sense this is a sequel to Let There Be Light'. It's not essential to have read that as this takes up years after those events...but for anyone that read it, yeah, consider it a sequel. Another pretty awful chapter in Harper's life, but this time...will it have a happier ending?  
**Spoilers:** I'm not aware of any, if anybody finds anything I should have warned them about let me know. There are nods to some episodes in later chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers. They just relate to background information on the characters a little bit.  
  


***** 4 *****  


  
Beka eyed the man walking ahead of her,trying to appear both unconcerned and uninterested - nonchalant, even. He really was incredibly attractive. Unable to help herself, she let her gaze wander down to his ass, watching his leather pants pulling taut as he walked.   
  
Yup. _Very _attractive.   
  
Eric Guldavian. It had been a while. She had put him out of her mind, purposefully, just as she had put Rafe and her father and all of her unsavoury youth out of it. She was going straight now, had been since she set up business for herself with Rev. Eric belonged to the past, all the drunken fumbles in the back of the Maru or some planetside dive redundant, meaningless in her current life. Eric belonged to the past, and still would, if he hadn't turned up in her present. Not for the first time that evening, Beka regretted letting Rev return to the Maru, wishing he had come along to chaperone. There was something very calming, very reassuring about having him around, something she hadn't found in many people throughout her life.  
  
Would she tell Rev anything? To a point, yes, she supposed she would. That made him the best friend she had ever had.  
  
The thought, an abstract one in this time and place, saddened her. That so few in her life could be counted as such. But one was still more than many found in lifetimes far longer than hers.  
  
Eric led her through the deepest, smog-drenched bowels of the station, his faint cynic's smile resting on his lips ready to surface, his cool grey eyes appreciative when they alighted, briefly, on her. Beka fought the flush rising in her cheeks, and quickly averted her eyes.  
  
So, uh...what have you been doing with yourself? Or shouldn't I ask? Eric questioned, mildly.  
  
You shouldn't ask, Beka shot back, with a grin that came with odd reluctance. Small stuff. Cargo, salvage...you name it, I've probably done it.  
  
Eric shot her a grin.  
  
Not that, she corrected, mock-dangerously.  
  
I wouldn't think it for a second, Eric assured her smoothly, still smiling. I couldn't help but notice you had a Magog with you. Now is that normal, Beka?  
  
Since when have I been into normal, Eric?  
  
He laughed, richly, his blonde head rolling back so that the sound echoed.  
  
Beka challenged back, playfully. What have _you _been doing with _yourself_?  
  
As she spoke they stepped out into a flood of light, a larger, higher, airier room than any they had yet encountered on Fresia Galla; a hangar deck, stretching away to all sides, shadows chased back by the fluorescents overhead.  
  
he replied, gesturing broadly with a magnanimous sweep of his bare arm.  
  
Beka followed his gaze, and her jaw fell loose in awe. There, in front of her, was a ship, towering up to the distant ceiling. It dwarfed the Maru, its gleaming, sleek lines and sweeping curves majestic in the flattering, intense backwash of light.  
  
she commented, attempting to disguise her jealousy with a joking lilt to her voice. See you finally followed my fine example and got yourself your own ship.  
  
Well, I couldn't possibly let myself be outdone, he laughed. And definitely not by you. Interested in seeing inside?  
  
Is a Perseid grey? she returned.  
  
Eric allowed one last, indulgent half-smile, before leading her inside.  
  


*****  
  
**

Eric gave Beka the grand tour, beginning with the hold and aft engine rooms, and working steadily up to the cockpit. Beka nodded through his brief explanations and laughed at his off-colour stories and scandals, but her mind, this time, was elsewhere.  
  
She was jealous, and it was no use pretending otherwise. Not to herself, and probably not to Eric. He had known her too long to be fooled for one minute by anything she said counter to her obvious nature. He doubtless didn't believe her when she said she had gone straight, despite it being the whole - well, almost whole - truth. He certainly wouldn't believe a lie.  
  
In fact, it had always been difficult to trick Eric, over anything. His was perhaps the most naturally devious and intelligently entrepreneurial mind she had ever encountered, including Rafe's. Once, she had admired that, and it had attracted her to him like a moth to light. That hopeless infatuation had passed, and painfully, but there was still an echo of it, far back where logic had no jurisdiction. Rev's sound advice took up the predominant seventy-five percent of her brain, but there was still that twenty-five percent, always looking for the Big Score, looking for easy breaks, helplessly drawn to that quality in others. Especially men.  
  
_Stop it, Valentine. You're not getting into this again. _  
  
Easy to say. But, perhaps, not so easy to carry out.  
  
As they walked up a long ramp to the cockpit, nodding brief introductions to the three crew members Beka didn't know and one she did, they passed a young man working with fierce concentration at a control panel, replacing a part with quick, nimble hands. He was small, horribly thin, and terribly dirty, standing out from these butch, well dressed, healthy ship men like a Than in a human brothel. Eric's eyes clouded almost too quickly to see, but Beka was sharp, and though he brushed the look of confusion and displeasure off almost instantly, she saw it loud and clear. He offered no introduction, as he had with the others.   
  
The young man looked up at the sound of boots on the ramp, turning bright, clear blue eyes on her, tragically lively in his gaunt face...and betraying the fear his casual, concentrating stance was designed to hide. There was a thick, blood-stained bandage taped beneath his right ear, in desperate need of changing. Beka knew something wasn't right, but was at a loss to know what. Perhaps a disagreement of some kind, one which was still fresh enough to be unresolved. Eric could be intimidating when he wanted, and though he failed to frighten her, she could well see how a kid like this would be nervous.  
  
she prompted, falsely light. Aren't you going to introduce me?  
  
Eric faltered for barely a second. Of course, I'm sorry. My mind isn't always what it could be, Beka, with the amount of sleep I get. Beka, this is Seamus Harper. He's only temporary; we put in to Fresia Galla earlier today for repairs, but our engineer died about a month ago, so...  
  
You hired from the station, Beka finished. Remembering the very ill and unfed look of many of the station's poor residents, it made sense.  
  
They told me he was good. We'll see. The boy flinched at that, but said nothing, and carried on with his work. Eric continued along the ramp to the cockpit, and taking his lead, Beka followed.  
  
The last of Eric's crew was sitting in the pilot's chair, feet up, sipping something that steamed and filled the room with an unfamiliar, exotic aroma. Beka breathed in deep, enjoying the smell. The crew man looked up, muttered a hasty evening, miss', and exited with a predatory, knowing look to his captain with Beka found deeply insulting.  
  
They know something I don't, Eric? she commented, dryly.  
  
Now, Beka...would I keep secrets from you?  
  
Beka didn't reply.   
  
Would he keep secrets from her?   
  
She would see.  
  


*****  
  
**

Rev tapped the Maru's science display with one curved, yellowed claw, thoughtfully. It had been hours since Beka agreed to dinner aboard Eric Guldavian's ship, and Rev had not been idle. As he had said, he had spent the time busily tracking the intercept signal from Fresia Galla, running checks and cross-checks. The signal originated from a ship called the _Magnus, _currently docked in the station's hangar bay.   
  
He had received a message from Stamp a little over an hour ago, nothing more stimulating or important than a reiteration of his earlier messages; they had a deadline for delivery. The blueprints, instructions for a sail barge, were supposed to have been bought and paid for by miss Ambrosia Price as a birthday present for her son, and neither would suffer any more delays. Rev fobbed Stamp off as politely and truthfully as he could, adding that they had a good lead on the intercept, and that their stop was for fuel and they would shortly be resuming course to the Favran system.  
  
Stamp had accepted the explanation, but reluctantly. Rev breathed a sigh of relief when the screen went dark and the comm was cut. Since then, he had redoubled his efforts to track the signal.  
  
And now he had. He smiled wryly, the claw still lightly beating a tattoo on the readout.  
  
The _Magnus. _He had checked Fresia Galla's docking permit manifest.   
  
The _Magnus _was registered under the name of one Eric Guldavian.  
  
To Be Continued...  
  


*******  


  
**Author's Note:** More Harper and Beka interaction next chapter, I promise...but you know how it is. You have to get the story set-up out of the way first sometimes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Five

like_jonah_from_the_whale5

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** See parts 1-4. They're not mine.  
**Rating:** PG-13. I'm still not sure how US ratings work. Where I am (the UK) it would be a 15, which feels about right to me, if just for the surgery' scene, and a little bit later on.  
**Summary:** I promised some Harper/Beka interaction - you know, the type where Harper actually says something - this time, and that's just what this is.  
**Spoilers:** There are nods to some episodes in some chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers. They just relate to background information on the characters a little bit.  
  


***** 5 *****  


  
Beka placed her fork on the empty plate and sat back with a sigh. After months eking out their reserve cash until such a time as Stamp paid, the food served up by Eric, and cooked by he himself, was a dream. Rich, copious, and, she suspected, expensive - whatever else she could say about Eric Guldavian, he was an excellent host. A bottle of fine red Mimian wine stood half-drained between them on the elaborately set table, leaving a faint ringed stain ground into the white linen of the tablecloth, a bloated, swooning purplish colour.  
  
Stuffed, her stomach pushing insistently at the waistband of her pants, Beka rested back in her chair, and was suddenly aware of Eric's probing grey gaze settling on her. More than settling; they drilled her mercilessly.  
  
Glad you liked it, he pre-empted her.  
  
Believe me, Eric, you have _no _idea. After three months of counting pennies it's...it's quite the feast.  
  
Eric once more dredged up that winsome smile, one which, to Beka, was beginning to take on a sycophantic quality through overuse. he said, pleasantly. It's not everyday I have a guest in here. And if it doesn't sound too forward of me, any guests I did have would definitely not be so pretty.  
  
Leave it, Guldavian. This fish isn't biting, she said with a smirk.  
  
Eric stood with a musical, distant laugh, and collected their plates from the table. I thought it was worth a try, he chuckled. After all...what happened once can always happen again.  
  
Beka froze at the comment, uncertain how to take it. Without turning to follow him to the kitchenette at the back of the room, she replied, through dry, senseless lips: Not this time, Eric. We broke up for a reason, remember?  
  
I do. The reason, if I recall, was your daddy. He didn't like me and that was always good enough for you, wasn't it, Beka? You always were daddy's little girl.  
  
You don't know what you're talking about, Eric.  
  
Don't I?  
  
The conversation seemed closed, and left on no happy note, but Beka wasn't about to re-open it again for the sake of defending things long gone. Eric was not the kind of guy who lost arguments easily, and slipped so rarely it was a discouragement to anyone that even considered trying. They picked up the threads of their dinner discussions, talking idly of their latest work, and their respective crew. Beka respected Rev's reticence, in some ways, and understood it would be foolish to reveal too much to Eric about him, but she told him enough; enough, hopefully, to make Eric understand that she wasn't the same woman anymore. And talking about Rev, thinking about his wise advice and calming influence, had a pacifying effect on her.   
  
So, Eric, she asked, when he had told her extensively of his five crew members and their place aboard ship. Since when did you start hiring kids? And ones that look like they're on death's door, to cap it all. She folded her napkin idly as she spoke, a casual gesture designed to disguise what she feared, secretly, might be a less-than-casual enquiry. Just what it was about the hired engineer that didn't feel right, she didn't know; but she could sense something, something in Eric's reluctance to speak about him, and the obvious malnutrition and ill-health of the kid. It doesn't seem like you. Or has the great Guldavian gone soft in his old age?  
  
Eric kept his face admirably calm, demure even, but it was not quite enough to fool Beka. There had been surprise at seeing the boy there earlier; now, there was surprise that she should ask about him.  
  
Hired help is a little hard to come by on Fresia Galla, Beka, he replied, cagily. You of all people should know that.  
  
I do. But he's just so...ill-looking. That bandage under his ear...  
  
An accident, Eric assured her. Nothing to concern yourself about. He's not contagious.  
  
That's not what I meant.  
  
He's just a kid working for one of the refitters, Beka. You see thousands of em trying to make a living that way on these stations.  
  
Beka let it go, unsatisfied by his answer, but knowing she would get no more from him. She might be over-reacting, probably _was_ over-reacting, but even so...well, Valentines were paranoid and suspicious by nature. They were hard to fool. She knew there was a story there, one which would brook no telling from Eric; he had been forthcoming, even proud, of his regular crew, telling her details she would rather not have known, regaling her with stories of their recent cargo runs and each man's part in it...yet now, his lips were sealed. All she could conclude, and what she _must _conclude, was that it was a story he didn't want her to hear.  
  
Beka stood, with difficulty, and wandered into the kitchenette to help him clear away. They were replacing plates in a safety-locked storage cabinet when one of his men knocked awkwardly on the door.  
  
the man said, in a low voice intended to block her from the discussion. Eric signalled with his fingers that he would be two minutes, and stepped outside with the crew man, leaving Beka alone in his quarters.  
  
Beka waited for the promised two minutes, and longer, but Eric didn't come back. Bored, Beka ferreted in the lockers and shelves forming his kitchenette, and came up with a golden find; real coffee. Smiling at Eric's stupidity in leaving her unattended with his coffee stash, Beka located his coffee maker, and set it brewing with relish. That would teach him to walk off and leave his guest.  
  
She was pouring a cup when the notion that she was alone, unwatched, melted into her mind, settling there like a sleeping shark at the bottom of an ocean, waiting to attack. She had been going about this all wrong. She shouldn't be questioning _Eric; _she should be questioning the kid himself. And what better excuse, she concluded, than bringing a working man a cup of coffee.  
  


*******  


  
She made another cup, and eased Eric's door open a crack, one eye peeking warily into the gloomy corridor beyond. It was empty, and the only sound was the patient hum of the engines underfoot. No voices, not even the faintest sign. Satisfied it was clear, Beka slipped out, a coffee cup in each hand, and snuck away towards where she remembered the main engine rooms were located. She would have to work her way around, room by room, until she found him. If he was even still onboard, she reminded herself, not at all certain he would be.  
  
She tensed as she neared the open archway leading into the aft cabins, where the engines were, hearing sounds of metal against metal, perhaps a wrench, and soft muttering. She peered around the door frame, keeping herself pressed flush to the wall and in the shadows, and saw the boy, kneeling beside an open panel, tangled wiring spewing out from the casing like intestines. He was trimming some wires, stripping others, twisting the occasional naked, live ends together. They sparked in a blue flare as he did so, and Beka wondered, not so briefly, if he was insane, working amongst live power lines like that.   
  
she announced.  
  
He jumped, visibly, the action planting another seed of doubt in Beka's already brimming mind - it had been a reaction of fear, clear and simple. Nothing any of them said could hide that.  
  
he replied, cautiously, and flashed her a smile that was bright, amiable, somehow hideously out of place against his thin frame and grey, lifeless skin. Dark, tired blooms bruised all around his eyes, and although the smile was cheerful, it was forced, weary. Beka felt her heart thudding painfully in her chest and her full stomach cramp at the sight, convinced beyond a doubt that she was doing the right thing by talking to him.  
  
Whatcha doing there? she asked. Oh, and I brought you coffee. I know how it gets working long hours on these things. She extended a cup to him, and he looked up, that same surprise she was beginning to see too often around here lighting up his strained blue eyes like fires. For a second, just a second, she saw honest gratitude there, burning too brightly too ignore.   
  
he said, and accepted it carefully, setting it down on the deck beside him. That captain guy's not exactly host of the century, ya know what I mean?  
  
Beka didn't reply, comparing what he had just said to her own experience - that Guldavian could be the perfect host, if he wished. And she picked up the joking quality in the kid's voice, relieved he seemed to have already identified her as safe to talk to. That was good.  
  
He can be that way. You gotta ignore him, guy's got an attitude problem when it suits him, she confided. Hoping that, by being honest herself, she could coax more from him that she had from Eric.  
  
Hey, you won't get any argument from me, lady, he agreed, his voice still bright, chipper, an uncomfortable contrast to his physical state. He looked ill, but still, it seemed, was trying to be friendly. It wasn't a quality she ran into often these days.  
  
she corrected. And you're Seamus, right?  
  
Kinda. I never really liked Seamus so much. People just generally call me Harper. Or genius. Or even God, if they want. He ruminated a moment. 'Course the ladies, they got other names for me too. Ya know. And he winked.  
  
She nodded, and crouched down beside him. Okay. Harper. You gonna drink that?  
  
He smiled with a soft exhalation, this one sadder, less exuberant. Perhaps, she mused, more real. Okay, Mom, he joked, and took a mouthful. Man, this is good coffee. They know you're handing this around?  
  
Technically? No. But I can handle Eric.  
  
Glad to hear it.  
  
She watched, stumped for a word to say, as he turned back to his work. He saved her the dilemma and spoke up himself, surprising her for the umpteenth time that day.  
  
So...you're not one of the crew, I know _that, _he said, affably. I saw you come onboard, and you sure as hell weren't around when...  
  
He stopped, realising what he had just said.   
  
Beka wasn't about to let it go. When what? _When we got here? Was he going to say that?_  
  
When, uh...when I got this job. You know. When I turned up this morning.  
  
How do you know I wasn't just off on business somewhere on the station this morning? The only way you would know I wasn't part of this crew was if you were on this ship before it landed.  
  
He faltered, carefully keeping his eyes on his work. Where they couldn't betray him.  
  
What are you really doing on the _Magnus, _Harper?  
  
Eric's voice, calling her.   
  
She glanced at the dumbfounded boy, realising her time was up, just when things were getting interesting.  
  
Listen, Harper, I gotta go. My ship's called the _Eureka Maru. _If you get a break, you come and see me, and we can finish this little talk, okay?  
  
He said nothing.  
  
she tried again.  
  
Eric was calling her again, his voice coming closer, and, cursing, Beka took her coffee, and ran out to meet him. Before he could see just who she was talking to, and ask questions she didn't want to answer.  
  


*****  
  
**

Rev was waiting for her when she got back to the _Maru. _He was, as always, unruffled and tranquil, his hands folded and his head dipping in greeting as she stepped from the airlock, but Beka's wind was immediately up, her already paranoid mind turning his meeting her at the door into a sign of an emergency. She was not disappointed.  
  
Rev. What's up?  
  
Your friend, Guldavian, I believe, he replied. It appears he is not being quite so honest with us as we assumed.  
  
I knew it! she exclaimed, thumping her fist into the wall abruptly. What is it this time?  
  
I checked the intercept we received. It seems the signal originated from the _Magnus_. Mr.Guldavian was the one who downloaded our blueprints. To make matters worse, Stamp has sent another message. He and his customer are getting impatient.  
  
Let him, Beka growled. But where would Eric hide blueprints? It's too easy for a ship's computer to be scanned, he wouldn't be so stupid.  
  
Rev interjected, he has not hidden them in his computer system. The expression, I believe, is: There is more than one way to skin a cat.'  
  
The realisation hit Beka like a shot from a rifle, perfectly formed, simple, clear. So simple and clear, in fact, it had passed her by completely, till now.  
  
The kid, she murmured. God, Rev, they were in the kid. Harper.  
  
Rev waited patiently for an explanation. When none appeared forthcoming, he asked: Which Harper is this, Beka? One of his crew?  
  
I...I don't know. He didn't look like he belonged there, and he sure as hell didn't act like it. Mentally, she ammended _He was too nice_...but shook it away. No time for personal impressions of him to get in the way right now. There was a bandage on his neck. Bloody, like it was a new wound. Eric's fitted the kid with a port, I'd put money on it. _That's_ what he was doing on the ship.  
  
If what you say is true, that makes this Harper' a data smuggler.  
  
No. I don't think it was his choice. I think he was kidnapped to carry the prints. Beka grabbed her weapon holster from its place beside the airlock, already moving to open it.  
  
We gotta go get him, Rev. That kid's in trouble. And he's got our blueprints.  
  
Rev halted her with a gentle, furry hand on her bare shoulder. Beka...I regret to have to tell you this, but...the _Magnus _ left dock the moment you disembarked. They're gone.  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
***  
  
**Author's Note: **I hope I've gotten the dialogue fairly close to the character's real speech patterns. It's very hard to judge for yourself. If anybody finds anything they don't think a character would have said, let me know, yeah?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Six

like_jonah_from_the_whale6

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** See parts 1-4. They're not mine.  
**Rating:** PG-13. I don't think there's anything worse than the surgery' coming up.   
**Summary:** You all know this part, right? Now that Beka has realised the truth about Eric, Harper and the blueprints, it's up to her to get them back. It looks like this story's going to go to 10 or 12 chapters, now that I've gotten far enough in to judge.   
**Spoilers:** There are nods to some episodes in some chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers. They just relate to background information on the characters a little bit.  
**Author's Note: **Thanks so much everybody for the feedback! I couldn't do it without the support and I live for the stuff, I do. This is for you, this little fic that was going to be a short and has suffered, as they all tend to, from my contagious elephantitis, and become quite a_ long_ fic.  
  


***** 6 *****  


  
  
Beka was speechless. She regarded Rev, anxiously scouring his gentle expression for a sign, _any_ sign, that he was wrong. Her gun belt swung limply from one hand, penduluming with a slow, constant swish-swish sound that barely broke the silence.   
  
she demanded, stammering and hating the sound of it even as it came. Beka Valentine did _not _stammer. Rev's face was pitying, remorseful, even though his only part had been to relay the news to her.  
  
I am truly sorry, Beka. It appears your friend was not to be trusted, after all.  
  
Beka threw her gun belt down and turned fiercely to the helm. Yeah, I kinda figured that out, thanks Rev, she snapped, and regretted it instantly. So now what? Can we track him?  
  
Rev approached on his soft-padded feet, making no sound on the deck as he walked, until he was beside her. She leaned into the helm, breathing hard to try and gather her thoughts, to try and control that spark igniting deep down in her gut where her legendary temper always began. With a spark, a flare, and a sudden inextinguishable blaze. If I may hazard a guess, Beka...this is not about those blueprints, is it? he prompted, mildly.  
  
Beka huffed, her teeth ground together till her jaw hurt, arms straining as her fingers tightened convulsively on the helm. You're damn right it's not. Eric Guldavian, he's the problem, he always _was _ the problem...well, he won't get the better of this Valentine, oh no, you can bet your ass on that. Rev listened with a faint nod of his head, but she was no longer talking to him, muttering these empty threats and tempered curses beneath her breath, angering herself deliberately because the rush was just so sweet.  
  
I never make a Rev replied, teasing kindly. But I will make a prediction; that you will get those blueprints back.  
  
At last Beka smiled, reluctantly feeling the gesture breaking her resolve to stay angry, to feed off the adrenaline like she had so often before. What, are you psychic now, too? she laughed.  
  
I merely know my friend, Rev answered. She does not give up so easily.  
  


*****  
  
**

Harper blinked against the probe of light, his stinging, tired eyes burning as the flashlight beam shone into them, piercing through the thin eggshell of his skull to the pulsing, raw mass of heat and pain inside. His torn and cut neck was an agony, shooting from his shoulder to the crown of his head, burrowing a million red-hot needles into his brain. He was losing consciousness.  
  
He was brought back with a blow to the stomach, and the distant, hysterical laughter of the flash addict. He had heard that laugh many times throughout the endless day, sometimes thin and wailing, skipping across his frayed nerves like a knife on a plate...other times it was low and shook from the man's stomach like an earthquake, mirth at a joke none but he were parley to. It was driving him even more insane than that drip, or the pound in his head likes waves on a shore, or the tunnelled yellow light pinning him, feeling like a pike skewering him to the wall through the back of his head.  
  
He tugged at the bonds around his wrists uselessly, too weak to do much more than a token show of resistance, blackness swimming in and out of his vision like a flickering light. All he wanted, and it was as naked and simple as all his usual wishes at times like these, was to close his eyes, and be allowed to pass out. To just sleep, to let the blackness take him where it beckoned, and escape the pain of his operation and the fatigue and starvation and thirst driving him crazy. He never wanted much; just enough food to stay alive, enough untroubled sleep to keep his mind functioning, a chance, once in a while, to breathe, and know he was in no immediate danger. The passing thoughts of wealth, wine and women, they were a distraction, they helped take his mind off the other things - but when you stripped away all the distractions, all the self-defence built into his brain, it was as simple as that. Just to stay alive. It wasn't much to ask; but the universe seemed to take perverse pleasure in denying him even that. He must have really pissed somebody off in his previous lives or whatever came before to deserve the life he had.  
  
Three of the pirates stood around him, staring him further into the chair they had thrown him into to, and Harper shrunk away from their gazes, especially from the captain's. The cold grey irises glinted in the gloom beyond the invading, penetrating flashlight.   
  
Let me get this straight, the captain said, reasonably, that same conversational tone he had adopted before coming into his voice again. Just for my own mind, you understand. See, from what I could tell, my guest' was snooping around in the exact same area of the ship where you were working. And you're telling me you didn't speak to her? A stranger, somebody you knew wasn't a part of my crew - and you didn't think Hey, she could help me get the hell outta here.' You didn't think that once?  
  
Harper gulped, but it stuck in his constricted throat, fear and unbearable thirst closing it against the reflex. His mouth was too dry to attempt it again. he slurred, painfully. I figured any guest' of yours wouldn't be any help to a mudfoot like me.  
  
The captain's eyes narrowed, suspiciously. Very astute of you, he said dryly. But of course, you had nothing to lose, right? I can't see any reason at all to imagine you didn't _try_.  
  
Harper turned his gaze flinchingly to the man that had done this to him, that had stuck a port into his head in some dirty underground butcher's shop, that had kept him a prisoner and starved him and denied him sleep since he started work on their dying engines - and was now interrogating him, with words, and that light...and his fists. His torso was a mass of bruises, sucker-punched and rammed with a rifle butt, but his head was out of bounds; it was too liable to start bleeding again, to rupture and kill him, taking their precious cargo with him. Harper smiled at that. Little did they know.  
  
I guess it doesn't make any difference, anyway, the captain sighed, pacing across the beam of light ponderously, his blocking body casting a hellish silhouette against the bulkhead. Miss Valentine wasn't interested in reminiscing, and she can't find us now to do anything about you. He paused, and the cool gaze fixed maliciously on him with a calculated, cruel smile. Assuming she'd want to, he said. And it seems pointless to bother doing something nasty to you when we're headed...where we're headed.  
  
Despite his mugginess and headache, that last made Harper sit bolt upright, his bound arms twisting awkwardly behind him. he asked, haltingly. Where are we headed?  
  
The captain laughed, and his two men joined in the rabble, the sound raucous and callous. Why, to extract my property, of course. I have a friend where we're going who knows enough of neuro-technics to remove your implant without disturbing the data. _Forcibly _remove.  
  
He paused again, for effect, letting this sink in. The utter horror Harper couldn't keep from his face must have pleased the son of a Magog; the smile twisted deeper, like a knife turning in an open wound. What, you didn't think I'd lose an expensive piece of equipment like that port, do you? the man who still had no name chuckled. You might be disposable, but it isn't. But don't worry; you'll die too quickly in the operating theatre to feel it.  
  
Their laughter echoed back to Harper where he sat, watching the three walk away through the haze of exhausted agony that he was losing the will to fight. Moments after their laughter died, Harper let go of the struggle, and let the blackness take him.  
  


*****  
  
**

Rev and Beka were scouring the surrounding space for signs of an engine signature which might be the _Magnus' _when the viewscreen to the right of the helm bleeped, hailing a rush of static, and finally, a video display of Randall Stamp. His half-human, half-cybernetic face leered towards the pair in his mechanically-hindered approximation of a smile, his one human eye blinking big and green in the left side of his face, the right dead and black in its socket, glowing with a faint reddish infra-red light. Stamp had been involved in an accident a while back, and had been cybernetically repaired', as he had explained it to Beka and Rev. His right eye, gored and useless, had been replaced with heat-seekers, and his right arm featured a metallic replica of a Nietzschean's inbuilt bone spurs.  
  
Beka knew she must have been desperate to ever take a job from a guy who looked that _that._ But his transaction had seemed, from all of their background checks, to be perfectly legitimate.  
  
Miss Valentine, his filtered, scratchy voice articulated through the plug burrowing into his throat, fixed into his voice-box and relaying electrical impulses to his speech centre. His own ability to do so, and speak unaided, had been destroyed with his eyes and arm. You're even harder to find once you're hired than you are before.  
  
Listen, Stamp, if you're calling to harass me into getting my butt in gear and delivering your prints, I gotta tell ya this isn't a good time.  
  
Is it ever a good time, Beka? Stamp asked ambiguously. His tone, always difficult to interpret beneath the fake grate of the synthesiser, was even harder to decipher than usual.   
  
Now that you mention it... Beka tried to joke. Rev remained peacefully silent beside her, the slight curl of his lips implying he found her struggle to keep her temper all rather amusing. He continued his signature scouring in the background, not looking up from the display.  
  
They're due tonight, Beka. Don't make me try out these spurs I had fitted. And, grotesquely, Stamp winked at her with his good eye. With that, he signed off, and the screen went dead.  
  
I _hate _ that guy! Beka exploded. Who does he think he is, on my case every damn hour of every day?  
  
Rev grunted. I assume he thinks he is the one paying you twenty thousand thrones for your services, he said, calmly. In her current state, Beka completely missed the teasing, ironic quality to it.  
  
And what would you know, Rev, huh? I didn't see you jumping in to defend me there.  
  
I wasn't aware you needed defending. But I _am _aware that you would like a lead on your friend Guldavian's vessel. I believe I have it right here.  
  
Set a course, she said without hesitation. She was beginning to pace, that steady flow of fury and adrenaline pulsing through her veins like a drug. She couldn't stand still. She couldn't stop until they had those blueprints, and the boy they were hidden in, safe and sound on the _Maru. _And Rev?  
  
Yes, Beka?  
  
He's not my   
  
To Be Continued...  
  
**Author's Post Script: **Sorry if this chapter seems a little choppy'. I just saw It's Hour Come Round At Last' for the first (and then second) time, and I can't get past the adrenaline! I hope it's okay, my head's kinda fuzzy tonight.


	7. Seven

like_jonah_from_the_whale7

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** Been there, done that. Wish I did. But I don't.  
**Rating:** This one's an PG-13. This chapter begins the bit of the story I thought would warrant it, and it continues to the next chapter.  
**Summary:** Harper and Beka meet up during the crossfire of a data-smuggling operation gone wrong, after Harper has miraculously escaped from earth.  
**Spoilers:** There are nods to some episodes in some chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers. They just relate to background information on the characters a little bit.  
**Author's Note: **This chapter should be a better effort than the last. Much more happening, I enjoyed writing this one! Thanks again for the feedback!  


  


***** 7 *****  


  


Light. Red, dull, burning like a dying sun. That light shone with a hellish, vermillion afterburn, brilliant after the blackness, hot after the cold. The neonicity hurt his...  
  
Wait. It couldn't be that that brilliance hurt his eyes. He could feel his eyelids, heavy and low with exhaustion, and they were closed. That light was inside. It was...  
  
No. The light came from outside his own private void, but it was white, cold, clinical. The colour was only a filter, the hue not the colour of the light but only the glow of his eyelids, transparent enough to allow that sun-like glare inside.  
  
_You're losing it, Seamus._  
  
The light had begun as part of his forgotten dreams and ended as part of his waking reality, heralding the uncomfortable awareness of the room he woke in. Those surgical, hellish lights, they were the worst, and the room wasn't hot, it was cold, unbearably cold, he was shivering with just the touch of that air through his thin and ragged clothes...he was restrained again. That, more than anything else, brought back his panic like it had never been away.  
  
"What are you...where are..?" he fumbled the words around his swollen tongue, his mouth numb with horror, and his eyes still protectively closed, a safeguard against things he didn't want to see. He didn't have to watch as they did...whatever it was they were going to do to him.  
  
There was the whisper of movement around him, that same suggestion of shadows, drifting in patterns around the table he lie on, circling like hyenas around a carcass. It was the butcher on Fresia Galla all over again. It was the same, in reverse.   
  
They had put this port in him, cutting and splicing indifferently when he had at last passed out from the initial shots...and now they were going to take it back.   
  
He clenched his teeth tight shut against the terror, kept his eyes closed, the light red, blood-red, the shadows aimless, shifting shapes against it, and prayed. If there was a Divine, if that Divine had any say in this pathetic universe, then it would be in his best interests to get on his - its - her? - good side. His mind babbled and brooked in twisting, incoherent sentences broken by panic, words he wouldn't remember, promises he wouldn't recognise until days later, but one parallel played continuously against it, an overlapping image in the chaos; he was Jonah. Jonah had been one hell of a big-time draft-dodger, he had prided himself on escaping what he didn't want to be a part of, much as Harper had escaped a homeworld he hated with every fibre of his being...he hadn't wanted to make the choice between joining the uprising against the Nietzscheans, or dying by them. He had run away from that to live his own life. But Jonah had been stopped in his travels, hadn't he, swallowed by a whale, and hadn't he himself been swallowed? Not by the whale, but by a ship and its mercenary crew.   
  
He couldn't remember the rest of the story, and that scared him beyond even the sight of this room and the straps at his wrists and ankles. Had Jonah gotten away? Had he gotten out of the whale...or had he died in it?  
  
_Damn it, remember._ The prayer dissipated, if he could even call it a prayer, but that thought remained; he didn't know the ending.   
  
He opened his mouth to speak, uncertain what he would say, knowing part of him, even in his denying state, wanted to say something...but nothing came out. Just a hushed breath, resignation, shock, the last of his resolve ejected from his body on the outrush of carbon dioxide.   
  
Foolishly, he opened his eyes. A connector glinted dully above him, a line of cold fire along its wicked, needle-edge. He shut them again, and the next thing he felt was the searing hot agony of it sliding into the port below his ear. It felt like a spear had been thrust into his brain.   
  
There was a blinding, kaleidoscopic rush, the sense of being _pushed_ towards the colours, or maybe more accurately pulled _by_ them, and then...  
  
...and then, there was this.  


  


*******  


  


Beka stared at the panorama below her, the stars winking in velvet, the planet slowly turning on its axis, oceans blue and deep as lapis on its surface. This was a water world, ninety percent of its crust covered with ocean. The _Maru_ had followed the _Magnus'_ course faithfully, tracing a signature which surprised her with its clarity and...well, it _obviousness_. Almost as if they had _wanted_ to be followed.  
  
Or at least, one of the people onboard had wanted to be followed.  
  
"Favra Prime," Beka muttered, to herself.   
  
"It is not...completely unexpected," Rev offered beside her.  
  
"Not unexpected? I'll say it's not unexpected - that two-faced son of a Magog, he's been playing us all along!"  
  
"You are referring to Randall Stamp, I presume? It does appear we may have...underestimated our employer's plans somewhat." He cast a sly, assessing glance in Beka's direction. The captain of the _Maru_ was sitting in the Slipstream seat, her hands still clutching the controls, her fingers convulsively tightening, turning her ringed knuckles white. "Twenty thousand thrones is more than sufficient to waive a person's sense of caution."  
  
"You trying to say I was seeing cash and nothing else, Rev?"  
  
I am merely interested in what _you _are trying to say, he returned, with a slight bow.  
  
Beka sighed, her head lolling back against the chair, her hair spread across its headrest in a static gold halo. I always knew Eric Guldavian was a creep. I mean, I _knew._ I shoulda known that rat was onto something. I'll bet his little dinner invitation was just to keep me distracted while Harper fixed his ship up enough to fly outta there. With _my _blueprints.  
  
Don't you mean _Stamp's_ blueprints?  
  
She huffed, hands spontaneously releasing the controls to throw themselves ceiling-ward in a hopeless gesture of frustration. I don't know _what _ I mean! That's just the point. That creep did my dad and me out of some good deals, and you know what? He's not gonna beat me at this one.  
  
Rev nodded, graciously. Are you quite certain that there is no _other _reason for your reaction?  
  
Like what? But his question had startled a rush of colour into her cheeks, and she cast her eyes downward, carefully directing them away from his cool, collected stare. _Was _there another reason? Did she...did she feel somehow obligated to rescue Harper, as well as recover her cargo? And aside from that, even, was there perhaps a third reason? Maybe this little crusade, aside from a business venture, aside from a philanthropic mission, was just a little bit of revenge. Just another mark on her record, another chance at proving she was the best, and would not be trodden down.  
  


*****  
  
**

This was something else.  
  
Harper - or at least, the tiny part of him that had sped down that psychedelic tunnel into this world of binary codes and twisting lights - looked around him in stunned awe, his pain and weariness left behind him, feeling...feeling _healthy_ for perhaps the first time in his life. Wherever his body was, it couldn't hold him back in here. It couldn't betray him by not being strong enough or fit enough or good-looking enough, couldn't give out on him before he reached the finishing line, couldn't...couldn't die on him.  
  
It couldn't, could it? What would happen to his mind, in here, if his body died in the real world? Would he be trapped in this computer world, a wandering consciousness without a form to return to, or...  
  
And if something should happen to his _mind_, in here...would it kill him on the outside?  
  
He put the worry aside, too relieved at being free of the discomfort for a short while. Too amazed by the dance of information melting down the walls of the vast electronic cavern, codes streaming like the wind past his virtual face, blazing green and gold against the peripheral blackness. And this, he suspected, was only a low-grade system - what would the best technology be like?  
  
Only one thing, a sensation entirely new, singularly unpleasant, yet elatingly staggering, troubled him:  
  
He was alone. There was nothing living beyond this residual image of him, this physical representation made by his own mind in a world where physical bodies did not exist. Not a soul in forever. He was nothing, but in here, he was everything.  
  
In here...  
  
I am a _god_! he exclaimed, and spun deliriously on his heels under the reaching dome of binary spinning over him like shooting stars.  
  
But even in that moment, the loneliness weighed on him. It was a frightening emptiness, worming its way inside, to be truly, and utterly, alone.   
  
Harper revelled a moment, but the pressing matters they had sent him in here to take care of called him back, and he walked on, crossing bridges of data streams over chasms of the same. They had presumably sent him in here to download the information from his port into this computer, now that they were at their destination. They must have a way to force the download, and would no doubt start to do so any moment, not trusting him to do it of his own accord. After all, that data was the only thing keeping him alive. That...and the trail of breadcrumbs he had laid as the _Magnus _sped away from Fresia Galla to this place - wherever this place was - hoping foolishly and without any grounds for doing so that the hot woman and her ship would follow.  
  
So...what you got in here that's so damn important? he mused, swinging his arms at his sides as he strolled through towering walls and stacks of computer commands. Oh smuggled data! Woo-hoo! he called, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound. It echoed once, twice, thrice, the sound reverberating throughout the system, making the structures tremble like paper in the breeze. Come to Uncle Harper! Here, kitty-kitty!  
  
And suddenly, there they were. They appeared in front of him, the things his invaded mind had been carrying through policed space:  
  
Weapons. Hi-grade, hi-powered, weapons.  
  
Harper stared. And stared. And stared...  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
**Author's Note: **Despite what I say here, I actually think Harper's very good-looking (when he's wearing that black t-shirt - oh boy) but I sometimes get the impression he doesn't think he is. Okay, so once he said Somewhat good-looking engineer, but still...I detect a bit of insecurity and I think it makes him who he is.


	8. Eight

like_jonah_from_the_whale8

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** I'm running out of ways to say I don't own a thing. Except Eric and his ship. They're all mine. Lucky me. j/k!  
**Rating:** Overall, this fic's a PG-13' for the surgery scenes, but there's nothing much in the rest.  
**Summary:** Beka is now on Harper's trail...but will she be in time to save him from the butcher knife?  
**Spoilers:** There are nods to some episodes in some chapters, mostly Fear & Loathing In The Milky Way', but not really spoilers. They just relate to background information on the characters a little bit. You'll know what I mean when you see it.  
**Author's Note: **I've tried to make this one a bit longer, because I didn't want to break the flow too much right in the middle. You know I never thought I could write this fast, it's you guys and your feedback spurring me on.   
  


***** 8 *****  


  


Beka thought wistfully of her former visits here; the magnificent dinner laid on by their host, the spacious bedrooms and use of the sporting facilities (Rev attempting to understand the rules of even the simplest games had been quite an experience), and the brilliant sunshine beating down on them and the sweeping grounds, hot, pleasant, _vital._ Beka had felt healthier here than in months prior to it, and had been reluctant, that time, to leave.  
  
This time, she approached the huge front door with her fingers hovering discreetly beside her open gun holster, the crunch of the loose gravel beneath her feet loud in the echoing peace of the surrounding gardens, her brain ticking rapidly with a thousand questions she might ask or be asked. She had left Rev in command of the _Maru, _ distrustful of this woman's scruples at this point in the game, but right at this moment, she wished she hadn't come alone. If Eric was here, with his crew of five and any guards Miss Price may have on her payroll, then one pissed off cargo captain wasn't going to cut it. One Magog at her side might not seem like much, but she had seen him in action, once or twice, when there was no other way - a crew of six or sixteen would stand little chance against him when he was mad.  
  
She had noticed a pattern, too; on each of the rare occasions when Rev had fought, it had been to protect her. Always when she landed herself in a scrape too deep to climb out of alone, although that much she would never admit to him - a Valentine, needing help? It was unheard of.  
  
She reached the overbearing door flanked by two broad, reaching columns of flawless white marble, set in a rise of three shallow steps of the same, and took a deep breath. The door was real wood, pine if her limited knowledge of the subject could be trusted, an outward demonstration of this woman's enviable wealth. It had seemed, initially, perfectly reasonable that Ambrosia Price may pay out ludicrous amounts of money for what she professed to be a birthday present for her son. Now, it seemed painfully obvious that she had acquired this wealth by pulling just the kind of scam Beka suspected she was pulling now, with both Guldavian and Stamp.  
  
Beka reached over with her left hand, and rang the bell, furiously depressing the button far too long and feeling an insane thrill at the incessant, trilling buzz sounding in the house.  
  
The door inched open, revealing a thin stripe of tanned face between the wood and marble, one eye peering accusingly out at her - and _down _on her. The man it belonged to must be at least a head taller than her, and she wasn't short.  
  
What do you want? that single visible corner of thin-lipped mouth demanded, in a voice as full of gravel as the noisy driveway.  
  
Ambrosia Price. Tall woman, dark hair, so much jewellery you can hear her coming from a mile up the road? Likes cats, as I remember.  
  
There was a murmured voice from inside, too low to distinguish gender let alone words, and the doorman stood back, pushing the door open, and allowed her to enter.  
  
Beka nodded grimly, and stepped inside. The door closed heavily behind her.  
  


*****  
  
**

Power crackled in a spitting cloud of green neon and the air (or what Harper's still rule-bound mind had substituted for air in this non-corporeal world where he existed only as data) hummed with repressed, unspent energy, purring and quivering in a faintly sensual way which made the virtual hair on his virtual arms prickle with cold. The cloud spun itself around the weapons blueprints, here represented in their assembled, fire-ready form, in a spider's web of protective encryption codes.  
  
Harper, breathing deeply of air which didn't exist but which his mind insisted on creating, if only as a placebo, crept closer, and reaching out flinching, cautious fingertips, brushed his hand over the web of electricity-like encoding.  
  
Well, now, let's see what's in papa's bag, he muttered, running his palm lightly over the cloud. It made his hand tingle and go numb, like a shot of Novocain had been drilled into it. He withdrew it, looking at the array of weaponry thoughtfully. He had no idea how much time he had, when or how they might instigate their forced download, or whether they really were waiting for him to complete it voluntarily, something they surely wouldn't expect him to do. He probably only had a couple of minutes, at best.  
  
He tapped at the coding, experimentally. Come on, be nice, he said, coaxingly, peering between the threads to study the unfamiliar firearms inside. He had never seen anything like them before, but he didn't need to know any more than their size told him - these were serious super-weapons. Before the nice psychos you belong to decide it's playtime.  
  
Behind him, the landscape bent and melted, ground and sky bowing away from each other and back, compacting and expanding, and a glow formed like a black hole in the centre, making him the only thing between that light...and the thing it was obviously intended to reclaim.  
  
Oh no, you don't, he murmured, and got to work.  
  


*****  
**

The doorman led Beka through a long, spotless hallway, cool with shadows, no windows letting in the furious heat. They emerged into an enormous glass sun room, light streaming in between a dozen open drapes, dappling the tiled white floor with bars of apple-white illumination between frames of shadow. The air was fresh with the scents of the tens of flower baskets hanging from the elegant archways, spilling blossoms of every colour imaginable to the thick carpet of petals on the floor beneath them.  
  
In the middle of the room, lounging on a Chaisse-longe, was Ambrosia Price. Her ringed fingers stroked lazily along the colourful head of the tiger stretched out beside her.   
  
Miss Price, I want a little word with you, Beka said abruptly, to the back of the woman's head, before the doorman could introduce her. He bowed low to Ambrosia, seeing he wasn't needed, and left silently. Beka wasn't fooled by the display; she knew that he and several others would be listening outside, possibly watching the room through security cameras to ensure their employer's safety.   
  
Beka eyed the tiger warily as it eyed her. Odds were that thing was trained to go for anybody that threatened its mistress, too.  
  
I'm looking for Guldavian, she continued, curtly. And don't give me any of your innocent crap. I know he's here and I also know he has something of mine.  
  
Miss Price continued her absent petting of the huge cat, not deigning to grace Beka with so much as a look. Only the tiger turned its great head to watch her, those lambent yellow eyes disconcerting, following her every move, and Beka realised with a sinking feeling in her stomach that she would never make it to her gun should she reach for it; that rare and priceless cat would be on her before she could blink.**  
  
** Price replied, disinterest flowing from her syrupy voice like the flowers flowed from their overhead baskets. And what something would that be?  
  
You know damn well what that would be, Price, so save it. Stamp entrusted me with his blueprints, for your precious son's birthday if I recall, and I was kinda under the impression that, you know, I would deliver them, and get paid. Only you and Stamp never intended for me to deliver them, did you? Or to pay me. I was just a handy way of getting your dodgy cargo through the Rauros belt where there're FTA and bounty hunters in every square light-year, and then you arranged for your little pet Guldavian to intercept them, and bring them to you. You pay him, we disappear hoping you don't notice your cargo's not been delivered, and you and Stamp...well, you get your illegal prints through without any hassle from the FTA. Tell me where I've got it wrong.  
  
Ambrosia sighed, a pretty, calculated breath that she no doubt employed to lure men to her cause when she saw fit. The woman was showing absolutely no sign of distress at her scheme being busted, and that irritated Beka.   
  
A lot.  
  
If I offer you thirty thousand thrones for your silence, Miss Valentine, would you kindly leave me and mine to our own affairs?  
  
Beka bridled. What's the catch?  
  
Even though she could see nothing but the back of Ambrosia's head, Beka knew she was smiling, and smugly. No catch. You take the money now, you get out of here. You leave us alone.  
  
Beka stared fitfully at the fall of black hair, the sweeping fingers, the stillness of the room heavy with midday heat and pregnant with anticipation. Thirty thousand thrones! What she could do with thirty thousand, or her share of it once she had split it with Rev...she could fix up the _Maru_, take a vacation from these shady deals and cargo runs...  
  
What about the kid? she asked, suddenly. Ambrosia's evident, sickly-sweet smile stayed; Beka could feel it, even if she couldn't see it. Will you let him go?  
  
Price laughed, daintily, throwing her dark head back as if the demand were the most deliciously funny thing she had heard in a long time. I'm sure it could be arranged to send his body wherever you see fit, she said, and Beka's fingers itched to go for her gun at that vicious laughter, ached to just take it and make a nice new hole in the middle of all that glossy black hair.   
  
But why should she care? Why should she be bargaining for a stranger, at the risk of losing so much money?  
  
she growled, through gritted teeth. What are you talking about?  
  
It was now, only now, that Ambrosia turned to her. The evil mirth glinting in her big green eyes, so like that of her jungle cat's, made Beka's blood run cold and her anger hot, burning its way through her arm, making her hand subconsciously stray towards her open holster.   
  
Surely you know how much those ports cost, darling? Price purred. Why, we never had any intention of letting him keep it.  
  
But those things can't be removed without a massive risk to the patient, Beka accused, understanding now, with mounting horror, what she was dealing with. It normally kills them.  
  
She was dealing with mad men. And one even madder woman.  
  
You're welcome to try and find him, if that's what you want, Ambrosia laughed. It should be quite entertaining to watch. But hurry, dear; they already started the procedure about half an hour ago.  
  
Beka turned, cursing Ambrosia Price and Randall Stamp and especially Eric Guldavian to the stars, and bolted from the room.  
  


*****  
  
**

Harper felt the inexorable pull of the real world, and resisted it as long as he could. Whatever they were doing to force the download he could even now feel streaming through him like a gale, they could force him awake, to. But he didn't want to leave, knowing what he was going back to, back to pain and weakness and...  
  
Yeah. How could he have forgotten what would come next, for him.  
  
Man, alright, I'm comin' already, quite pullin' me! he swore, and then the colours swept over him again, streaking past as he was pushed, this time away from them, and opened his eyes to the dim murkiness of that horribly lit operating theatre once more.  
  
He only prayed he had worked fast enough, and had finished in time.  
  
A face was looming over him, leering, a silhouette against the lights, a cold, cruel smile barely visible in the shadows.   
  
How's our stowaway feeling? the captain of the _Magnus_ asked, pleasantly.  
  
Like I just had a spike jabbed in my brain, how about you? Harper quipped, unable to help himself. Look, guy, you got what you wanted, I downloaded your data files, they're all there. You can just...let me go, okay? Who am I gonna tell? They'd bang me up for this as fast as you could say FTA'. It'd be Hello, stowaway. You did what? With who? Well, that's just swell. Take him away'.  
  
The man smiled still more pleasantly, indulgently, at a joke only he knew. Harper gulped.   
  
Now, you're gettin' that look again, Harper wavered.  
  
And what look would that be? the captain asked.   
  
That...you know, that _hungry _ look.  
  
The captain laughed, richly, his shadow shaking with mirth. Well, aren't you the little wise guy? It'll be a shame to waste you, I have to say. You're a good engineer.  
  
Then don't waste me, Harper countered eagerly. I can stay around. You know, fix up that little puppy of yours whenever she takes a hit. I can keep her in tip-top condition.  
  
The captain leaned closer, gazing down on the helpless, bound boy with something very like regret for a moment. Then it was gone, and the amusement was back, colder and harsher than before. I wish I could believe you. The _Magnus _needs an engineer. But can you honestly promise me you'd never talk to people again about things which don't concern you?  
  
The woman. The blonde woman with the long legs and the pale, determined blue eyes. The one who had brought him coffee, and had at least spoken kindly to him. He had known it was a mistake to speak to her, but he hadn't been able to help it.   
  
It had been so long since anybody was kind to him. But that was all it had been, evidently. Kindness. It had been foolish of him, stupid, to expect her to follow the trail he had left. He had been on his own for too long now to believe in knights in shining armour anymore. He was on his own, and he always would be.  
  
You can't kill me, he stammered, his mouth stupid and unresponsive as he tried to form the words. He tugged at the straps, knowing it was useless, unable to stop his natural instinct from doing so anyway. He hadn't wanted to play this last card, not so soon, but if ever there was a time to play hidden cards, it was now. If you kill me, you...  
  
A blast silenced him, the bright, hot red streak of an energy weapon fired over him. It struck the crew man standing away to his left, and the man slumped against the dirty wall, and slid down it, leaving a broad, ragged smear of blood behind him.  
  
Game's up, Eric! a female voice shouted. Another shot rang out, blasting into the wall behind the captain, who jumped in surprise. Hand him over, or you're barbecued.  
  
Harper placed the voice instantly. The woman. The blonde.  
  
She had followed his trail after all.  
  
To Be Continued...  



	9. Nine

like_jonah_from_the_whale9

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** You all know this by now.  
**Rating:** It's still a PG-13' overall, but most of the icky stuff's past.  
**Author's Note: **At this point I don't have much to say in these little notes except thanks again for the feedback, and I hope you still like my story.  
  


***** 9 *****  


  
Harper tried to keep his cool, but hearing that voice, hearing what it _said, _made it impossible to prevent it entirely from reaching his face. He smiled, ruefully, his heart a muffled pound in his screaming, heavy skull. His temples felt like lead.   
  
The captain, Eric, stood silently beside the operating table, making no attempt to reach for his weapon, only smiling that dulcet, tempered smile. His stillness, his acceptance of the woman's spectacular entrance, unnerved Harper more than a little bit. For perhaps the first time in his life, Seamus Zelazny kept his mouth shut.  
  
Eric said, smoothly, conversationally - he might have been out for a stroll for all the concern in his tone. And here was I expecting you to ask for your cargo. What has this boy ever done to deserve your attention?  
  
Harper wished he could turn, see his rescuer's face - he was sure she was beautiful when she was mad - but the straps held him down, bound to the table, and he couldn't see anything but Eric, and the lights overhead, and the woman's elegant shadow streaming up the far wall to his left, everything thrown into sharp relief by jagged spikes of shadow and light.  
  
What has he done to deserve you doing this? she shot back, and Harper could hear the anger tremoring softly in her barely controlled voice, waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to break free.   
  
Cerebral ports aren't cheap, Beka. And the FTA must have a hundred patrols in the Rauros belt. I wasn't about to hide these prints in the computer or put them in one of my crew if I had any other options. He was a stowaway. A mudfoot. He presented another option.  
  
Well, now you've got your precious blueprints here, you don't need him. Let him go, Eric. I don't give a damn about the blueprints, it's pretty clear I couldn't sell em, whatever they are.  
  
Eric feigned hurt, but that vicious amusement lurked beneath it, lending his shadowed face a surreal, hateful quality. To somebody who already hated the sight of the man, the effect was ghastly. Beka, you know what they are. They're...  
  
I know what Stamp and Price told me, she returned, her out-of-shot voice hard, unbending. They're prints for a sail-barge. For her son. Except they're not, are they, Eric?  
  
Harper listened raptly to the negotiation, his heart leaping wildly when she said that last - he knew exactly what they were. What they were for. What would happen. His survival instincts clamoured for him to keep quiet, not to attract any more of the captain's anger, but he owed this woman, big time, for even trying to help him.   
  
They're weapons, he said, quietly, hoping she would hear. He couldn't raise his voice anymore; he was too weak, in too much pain, the room revolving around him in hazy, black-edged tumbles. They...they're top-secret...I haven't seen anything like em before...  
  
There was a silence, weighty, dark, a tableau out of a nightmare - then, the woman, Beka, spoke.   
  
Weapons, Eric? And here was I thinking you'd changed.  
  
Eric, much to Harper's disgust, bowed. There was no sign of the neuro-technician - he must have run at the first shot.  
  
You don't have to fight me, Beka, Eric said, gently, persuasively. It made Harper's flesh crawl, a thousand tiny feet creeping long his flesh, and he shivered, helplessly. He was listening to the discussion which would decide his life. If she caved...if she changed her mind...he was dead. I could cut you in. Twenty thousand, wasn't it? What do you say, Valentine? It'll be just like old times.  
  
She wavered, and Harper's heart sank at her hesitant voice. You...you could?  
  
Eric nodded. Yes. Of course I could. I could always find time for you, Beka.  
  
That silence went on forever. Harper's eyes darted from Eric to Beka's long, supple shadow on the wall to his left, her slender arm pointing a gun at Eric's head.  
  
_C'mon, Beka, don't do it. C'mon, lady, don't let him buy ya out, whaddya say, huh? C'mon...  
  
_She said nothing. Slowly, the movement almost balletic in its suppleness and grace, the shadow beside him lowered its weapon. The two opponents continued to stare at each other, eyes meeting over him like two predators over a prize.  
  
she said at last. Then if you don't mind I'll buy him with my share. The shadow-gun jerked back with a snap, its sights on Eric, and there was the steady, reverberating hum of an energy cylinder charging up.  
  
Hands tugged at his restraints, loosening them enough for him to free himself, and he saw brief flashes of blonde hair and one creamy bare arm out of the corner of his tired eyes. Come on, Harper, she said, briskly. We're getting outta here.  
  
You got my vote, he slurred, staggering shakily to his feet. His vision was beginning to fail, the room misty, the woman's - Beka's - face a pale blur beside him. He felt her hand steady him, wrapped around his upper arm tightly.   
  
Can you run? she asked.  
  
From them? Hell, yeah.  
  
She began to drag him from the room, her gun still trained behind her at the motionless Eric, and Harper's feet instinctively followed her lead, and carried him out of the room that had almost been his final destination.  
  


*****  
**  


The external defences of Ambrosia's expensive mansion activated the moment they set foot outside, bursting out into daylight that made Harper blink, unused to it after these last few days. Beka tugged at him, urging him in the direction of a fringe of trees two hundred yards away.   
  
Ah, man, we'll never make it! he whined, eyeing the distance, jerking away from a laser beam striking the gravel inches from his feet.  
  
Sure we will, she said, cockily.   
  
The next couple of minutes were hard to recall after the event, and they were hell to the stumbling, fainting Harper, giddy with starvation, thirst, and fatigue. His wound was letting fresh blood in cold, sickly streams down his neck, and his feet didn't feel his, barely responding as he threw himself forward, Beka catching and urging him on when he faltered. The two dodged the barrage of beams shooting out across the grounds, exploding in showers of gravel and sparks too close for comfort.  
  
Over here! Quickly! Beka yelled, and thrust him behind the wall of trees and out the other side. The weapons fire, now that they had passed out of range, died out, and for the first time, Harper could stop, and look at what she had led him to.  
  
It was a ship, standing silent on its leg-like armatures in the middle of the glade. Light knifed through the trees, lending the rays a green, liquid quality, illuminating the bulky, unattractive ship in romantic, flattering spills and flares, like a painting.   
  
The _Eureka Maru_, Beka supplied, a hint of pride entering her breathless voice.  
  
A figure emerged from the ship, distant, small, looking like a doll from this distance. It was dressed in what appeared, to Harper, to be red robes, but the image was foggy, the approaching figure blurring in and out of focus. It looked...it looked brown, furry, but that must be his imagination...mustn't it?  
  
The figure was close now, coming up beside him, and Harper opened his mouth to say something, to thank them for saving his life, anything that wanted to come...but nothing _would _come, just a thin whistle of air in his throat and a flush of blackness over his eyes. As he collapsed, he felt hands, large, angular, furry hands, catch him under his arms, and lift him gently from his feet.  
  
That was the last he was aware of on Favra Prime.  
  


*****  
**  


He awoke to feel a steady, purring vibration shooting through his body, tingling, comforting, not in any way unpleasant, and the enticing, familiar smells of metal and engine oil and coolant, the smells of a ship, and that purr was the forward motion and the active engines...the surface beneath him wasn't the hard, pitiless texture of a surgical table, or the cracked ground of his home, so far away now; it was the soft, giving, warm surface of a bunk bed. He was in a ship's bunk, and they were heading out into open space.  
  
He opened his eyes, finding it dark, brooding, restfully quiet aside from the engines. A single view port, tiny and partially concealed by loose wiring like spider's webs in the dark, looked out on an array of stars. He had always dreamed he would visit them, be among them, someday, and now he was. He was really _free_.  
  
He turned his head a little on the pillow, making his temples scream, dots circling his vision, making him almost pass out again. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and counted slowly until the pain went away.  
  
I wouldn't try to open them, just yet, a voice said beside him.  
  
Harper jumped, stirring that bolt of agony again. It wasn't Beka. It was a low voice, a gentle, lulling tone, but the lilt was scratchy, gravelly, rough as sandpaper. It didn't sound like anyone he had ever heard before.  
  
_The figure, _ he remembered, groggily. _This must be them. Him. _For it was undeniably male.  
  
Good idea, he muttered, in reply. There was a pause, the stranger emitting only a small, satisfied grunt. Harper lie still, waiting for the man to speak, not having the energy, for once, to do so himself.  
  
You had a lucky escape, the man said. A few moments later and it might have been too late.  
  
Great. Way to make me feel better, guy, Harper grumbled. But there was no real side to it; he was too grateful, God was he, to be alive. Again. Alive when he shouldn't be, when the odds had been against him. Just the thought gave him a fresh headache to add to the one already pressing and gnawing at his too-small skull.  
  
I did not mean it to distress you. I am merely stating that the Divine must like you. There was a rueful, and patient, hint of amusement in that statement, and Harper smiled back, bitterly, even though he couldn't see who his smile was returning to.  
  
Ya think? If he liked me so much why'd he let me get sliced up like a prime rump steak in a grill house?  
  
There was a gruff, guttural laugh, and Harper wondered, briefly, if maybe this guy had something wrong with him, to sound like that. The ways of the Divine, I regret, are often...hard to understand. All I know is that there is a reason. Even if we cannot see it.  
  
Harper gulped, unconsciously; wanting to believe what this crewman of Beka's told him. God, he wanted to believe there was some sense to his life, some sense to _anything..._but he didn't know if he could. You mention the Divine a lot. What, are you religious, or something?  
  
I am a Wayist. I follow the path the Divine has set for me. Even if it is sometimes difficult.  
  
Difficult? You got that right.  
  
Harper stopped, taken unawares by a coughing fit that hacked its way up his parched throat like a knife shaving the skin away, and he lurched up in the bunk, choking. He felt the rim of a bottleneck bump lightly against his lips, urging him to drink, and he took the bottle offered him in both hands, and drained the water inside thoughtlessly.  
  
Not too much, the man warned. It will only make you sick.  
  
Harper reluctantly took the advice, and lowered the bottle, but his throat and mouth cried out for more. He had experienced thirst plenty before now; he knew what it meant to drink too much, too fast.  
  
There was a silence. Harper leant over gingerly, moving by inches to keep the pain from flaring up again, and set the bottle down on the deck beside his bunk, feeling his way in the dark. He could barely make out the man's silhouette against the wall behind, a faint grey outline, indistinct and blurry. He wanted to say thankyou, as he had wanted to say thankyou to Beka, but couldn't form the words. Instead, on a whim, he asked: Have you ever heard the story of Jonah and the whale?  
  
The man considered, a rattle in his throat as he cleared it to speak. Jonah and the whale? Yes, I believe I am familiar with it.  
  
Do you remember the end? See, I know this Jonah guy, he was asked by his god to do something or other, I'm a bit hazy on that part, but I know that Jonah, he was his own guy, right? He didn't want to do what he was s'posed to do, so he took off. Only his ship got caught in a storm and he was swallowed by the whale. Harper hesitated, hoping for some response. He got none, and knew that the man was waiting for him to complete what he started. After that...I don't remember what happened, he admitted. I don't know if he got out or not.  
  
The shadow beside Harper's bunk nodded, seriously. Yes. Jonah was given the task of preaching to the sinful city of Nineveh. But Nineveh was no place for a religious man, and so he attempted to avoid his commission. He was indeed swallowed by a whale. But he was released by his god to complete the task that was set for him. What were you escaping, Harper, when the whale swallowed you?  
  
Harper turned his eyes probingly on the shadow, wishing for light, wishing he could see the man's face. The question stunned him, and left him speechless. Um...what makes you think I'm escaping from something? he asked, falteringly.  
  
Only you, the man replied. What you tell me. What is this thing you run from, Harper?  
  
Harper gulped. I...I guess it's...all the violence. Where I'm from there's always somethin'. Raids, attacks, storms. It was join the resistance against the Nietzscheans and the Magog or be killed by em. I just wanna live my own life, ya know? I don't want any of this.  
  
When the man spoke again there was a stilted, guarded quality to his voice, flat and reflective, that hadn't been there before. You...you sound as though you hate the Nietzscheans and the Magog far more than you bear grudge against the likes of Eric Guldavian.  
  
What's not to hate? They're murderers, scum, they just destroy everything in their path. There's nothing to choose between em, you ask me. They're all the same.  
  
The silhouette nodded, sagely, that rumble sounding in his throat again. So you ran from the chaos. And now that you have been delivered from the whale, I suppose you will fulfil the task the Divine has chosen for you.  
  
Harper sat upright, bumping his head against the underside of the bunk above. Wh..what? What task? I'm free, man. I'm free of earth and it's high time I did me some livin'.  
  
Hmm. You may say so now, Harper; but when you're ready, your way will find you. It was what the Divine spared you for, all this time.  
  
It's a nice sentiment and all...but I'm not a Wayist.  
  
the man laughed. Everybody in the universe is a Wayist. They just don't know it yet. Being free is a wonderful thing, and is not to be squandered; but with it, comes responsibilities. Are you ready to accept them?  
  
Harper smiled bitterly, once more sending that smile out into the darkness, knowing it wouldn't be seen; but may, perhaps, be felt. He was about to reply when the lights flicked on overhead, and the man beside him was thrown into stark, white light.  
  
Harper stared, frozen to the spot.  
  
he rasped.  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
**Author's Note: **I really enjoyed writing Harper and Rev's first meeting, in what I hope is a new way; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.


	10. Ten

like_jonah_from_the_whale10

**Like Jonah From The Whale****  
by Xenutia  
**

  
  
**Disclaimer:** I thought it was supposed to be three times for repetition. Not ten. Oh well, here goes, tenth time: don't own em.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for past chapters, but this part hasn't much in it.  
**Author's Note: **Well, here it is; the last chapter. But don't go away yet! There's a sequel coming which follows the _Maru _and its acquisition of another famous crew member, called Paint Me A Rainbow'...and for anyone that's interested I'll be writing some more Harper/Trance fluff in the near future called Dancing After Dark'.  
  


***** 10 *****  


  
Harper shrunk back against the far wall of the bunk, his back-pedalling feet trying to push the rest of him through the wall until it absorbed him, eyes staring wildly from the Magog beside him to the tall figure of Beka standing in the doorway, her left hand rested by the lights, the other holding a tray.   
  
"You...get it away from me!" he wailed, thinly, scrambling back and away, circling as the creature beside him followed him with its small, piercing eyes.   
  
"I...I mean you no harm, Harper," the Magog began, in that voice Harper should have known wasn't from any human, that grating, raspy voice like a knife on a plate.   
  
"Rev," Beka said from the doorway. "Maybe you should take over at the helm for a little while. I'll stay with Harper."  
  
Harper turned frantically on her, eyes staring from his sweaty face like saucers, hands shaking. "You...you mean you know it's name? What the hell are you thinking, lady, don't you know what these things can do?"  
  
Beka came over to the bunk, shooing the Magog back with one casual hand. The Magog slipped away unquestioningly, and disappeared through the open archway Beka had emerged through. She set the tray down on the bunk beside him, and rolled her lips together, thoughtfully eyeing him up and down. "You know, I didn't bring you on board so you could insult my crew," she said.  
  
"Your...your crew? You gotta be kidding me!"  
  
She only looked at him seriously. "Why? He's a Wayist. He hasn't eaten so much as an animal for years. He's a pacifist. And he's also my Science Officer. If you have a problem with him, you have a problem with me. Understood?"  
  
Harper was torn. This woman had saved his life, when he wasn't anything to her, when she didn't have to. She had saved him from the whale. She seemed pretty smart to him, too smart to have a rabid, dangerous creature on her ship...unless...unless what she told him about the Magog called Rev was true.  
  
"Look, I'll try, okay? I'll try and give him a fair break. But you don't know Earth, lady, you don't know what it's like."  
  
Beka demurred. "I brought you some food," she said, nodding to the tray. "No offence, but you look like you need it."  
  
Harper nodded, gratefully. "Thanks," he said. But he didn't touch it just yet.   
  
"Okay, I know that look. My brother used to pull it all the time. What's on your mind?"  
  
"Why did you come after me?" he asked, softly. Suddenly drained of all the fight and ferocity the sight of a Magog on board had elicited from him.  
  
Beka shrugged. "Why not?" Harper looked at her questioningly. "Not all ship captains are pirates, ya know," she continued. "Well, maybe I am, sometimes, but that's not the point. The point is, I didn't agree with what that creep Eric was doing. Alright?"  
  
He sighed, and pulled a weak smile from the shattered remains of his humour. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I guess so."  
  


*****  
  
**

Beka found Rev sitting in the Slipstream seat, staring fixedly out into space, his clawed hands folded serenely in his lap. He was still, silent, his back to her as she entered; but her sixth sense told her he was feeling anything but tranquil.  
  
He doesn't mean it, Rev, she said, cautiously. Knowing it was a lie. Knowing he did mean it.  
  
Yes, he does, Rev replied, quietly.   
  
Beka allowed the silence, unable to think of a reasonable response with which to break it. She licked her lips, considering. she said, at last, crouching down beside him, one hand rested on the back of the chair. When I first met you...I won't say I wasn't shocked, too. Even wary. It's not everyday you hear of a Magog becoming a Wayist. She paused. In fact, you're the only one I've ever met.  
  
Rev nodded, eyes still directed so zealously away into the stars, a low rumble sounding in his throat. There are others, he said, quietly. Brother Thaddeus went in amongst the swarming Magog like Jonah into the city of Nineveh...and he made Wayists of many of us. The anointed himself was a Magog.  
  
The reference was unfamiliar to Beka, and she raised her eyebrows, questioningly. Who went into where, Rev? Have I missed something?  
  
Just something the boy asked me. Before he knew what I was.  
  
He'll come around, Rev. And if he doesn't, what does it matter?  
  
Rev turned to her, at last tearing his eyes from the stars, directing his serious, probing blue gaze on her. But it will matter, Beka. You are thinking of asking him to stay, are you not?  
  
How did you..?  
  
How did I know? I know you, Beka. I know the way your mind works.  
  
She smiled, helplessly. Well, what if I was? I won't do it if you have a problem with him.  
  
Far from it, Beka. It is he who has a problem with me. But the Divine has a plan, for all of us. This boy was delivered to us for a reason. I do not intend to stand in the way of the Divine.  
  
Beka laughed, and patted Rev's shoulder jokingly. Well, you sure know how to convince a girl, Rev. I'll just go see how...  
  
She was interrupted by the hiss and snap of the display over their heads, and the voice which cut from it like a snake.  
  
Leaving so soon, Beka? Eric's image said, pleasantly.  
  


*******  


  
Eric, turn around, Beka replied, curtly, rising to her feet. Her hands went unconsciously to her hips, her pose mirroring her impatience. You got your blueprints, you can let the port and us go. How's your man, by the way?  
  
He'll live. The image smiled, that pleasant, pretty smile she had once melted at the sight of and now shivered at the suggestion of. It made her flesh crawl to think she had ever...  
  
On the contrary, Beka. That mudfoot brat ripped me off! These blueprints are useless! Now he has the real ones and I want them back. Hand him over if you don't want your precious ship blown into scrap metal.  
  
Beka hesitated, not sure whether to believe him or not. She opened her mouth, about to tell Eric to go back to his tiger-loving mistress, when a voice spoke up from the archway behind her.  
  
So you figured it out, hey Eric? Harper came fully into the room, deliberately placing Beka between he and Rev, deep blue eyes flaring hotly as they fixed on the viewscreen. I didn't know if you were going to.  
  
Beka glanced at him in surprise. The expression on his face was one she had hardly expected of this frail, battered young man, so determined and set, so fiery, so...vital. His eyes, the only part of him not outwardly ill and brittle, blazed in his dirty white face like dying stars.  
  
On screen, Eric's crocodile smile clouded over. You think you're smart, kid? Well, here's a problem for you to solve. If you really are grateful to Miss Valentine, you'll give yourself up. Or else I'll blow you, Miss Valentine, and her pet furball out of the sky.  
  
I don't think so, Eric. Harper took a menacing step towards the viewscreen, and Beka stayed back and let him, intrigued as to what card he thought he was holding, impressed, quietly, with his guts and control. She shouldn't have been surprised, not really; this boy had survived years on Earth - he must have learned just as well as she, and perhaps moreso, how to take care of himself. See, when your crew were so kind as to let me help fix your engines, I did just that. I fixed' your engines. As in, fixed' em to do something you didn't expect. Those power generators are programmed to _my _heartbeat. So, when I stop, _they_ stop. Well, explode. And they'll take your ship with it. It's an old trick, I'm surprised you didn't think of it.  
  
Eric squirmed - visibly squirmed - at that. You're bluffing, he accused.  
  
Am I? Harper returned, cooly. Care to find out?  
  
Silence. Beka watched the two, duelling with their eyes and resolve...playing chicken.   
  
Your call, Eric, she said, cockily. Praying she wasn't putting her faith in a dead loss. Don't want your ship blown to scrap metal, now do ya?  
  
There was another silence, three sets of eyes battling with Eric's, waiting for him to attack...or call it off.  
  
This won't be the end, Beka, he said, at last. Keep the brat if you think he won't stab you in the back as it pleases him. You and I both know mudfoots can't be trusted.  
  
The screen went dead.  
  
Thankyou, Harper, Beka whispered. But Harper had passed out again.  
  


*******  


  
When Harper came round he found that they had placed him back in the bunk, and re-bandaged his still weeping neck wound. His numb fingers traced the hard, round shape beneath the bandage, wonderingly, possessively. He had the cerebral port. It was there, and it was staying. Perhaps a more moral individual would refuse to make use of it, considering its shady acquisition, but to Harper that background was all the more reason to put this thing to good use. A chance to make something of his life.  
  
To do whatever it was he had been put here to do.  
  
I don't believe in all that crap, he hissed, to himself. Protesting too much.  
  
A pity, a voice said from the archway.  
  
Harper sat bolt upright, watching the robed figure standing silently, his hands folded in his sleeves.   
  
Yeah, well, I didn't ask for another sermon.  
  
Is that what you think it was? I thought all Magog were...scum. Incapable of higher thinking. The Magog turned Harper's own words back on him gently, teasingly, a smile playing the bark-like brown face with amusement.  
  
Harper cringed. I didn't mean it to sound like that. But they are, you know, even a Wayist-pacifist-whatever-you-are Magog can't deny that.  
  
Rev bowed, ever so slightly. I regret to admit that is all too true. My kind have...done things of which I am far from proud.  
  
You sound like you hate em more than I do, Harper murmured, incredulously.  
  
Hate is not the word I would have chosen, but...it is true I wish to have no part of their life.  
  
Harper was silent, if it were possible more torn over this seemingly paradoxical Magog than before. Well, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, he tried to smile. Just...no more watching me while I sleep, okay?  
  
As you wish. It will be in both of our best interests to overcome this little difficulty. I had heard Miss Valentine is thinking of asking you to stay. But of course...that would mean working alongside a Magog.  
  
Harper tried not to let the Magog - Rev - see it, but at the mention of Beka and the chance of an offer to stay, his heart leapt into his mouth, and his pulse quickened in his throat. He had never considered...but he had hoped, somewhere so far back it was only an echo, one he had barely let himself entertain, that she would. He had thought that once he left Earth, all his problems would be over. Now it seemed they were only just beginning. He didn't honestly know where he had intended to go, or what he had meant to do...but now the thought of trying to start again, alone, frightened him even more than the crinkled, woody face and dormant, yellowed teeth and claws of the Magog standing watching him, so terrifyingly silent.   
  
She...she'd do that? he wondered, aloud.  
  
Rev nodded. As would I, he said.   
  
Why? Why would you want a little mudfoot like me here, when you know I'll never...I'll never trust you? And don't give me any of that Divine' spiel, either.  
  
Because, as sure as you are of that, it is still impossible to tell how we will feel in the future. And besides...maybe I like you.  
  
Should I run for cover now? Harper joked, feebly.   
  
Can I take that as you accepting the offer?  
  
Sheepishly, Harper nodded, desperate not to appear too eager, too accepting. Just...just give me one reason why I should trust you, he said, softly. One reason which is nothing to do with Wayism. If you can do that, then, hey, I'm onboard. You got yourself an engineer.  
  
Rev's eyes softened, drawing Harper unwillingly into them, and it was then that Harper noticed a strange thing; all his life, never allowing a Magog close enough to him to see for sure, he had assumed their eyes would be yellow, cat-like, feral - or else red like demons and dying suns. Maybe some of them were. But Rev's eyes were a soft, milky blue, blue like his own, and they were, in that moment, almost...human.  
  
Do you remember your first sight of the _Maru, _Harper?  
  
Harper nodded, afraid he already knew where this was headed.   
  
You passed out, as could only be expected. You awoke, in this bunk, safe. How did you get there, Harper?  
  
Suddenly ashamed, and equally dismayed that such a feeling could ever be directed towards a Magog, creatures he had been raised to hate on sight and fear in the dark, lonely hours every night when sleep wouldn't come, Harper whispered: I don't know. But he did. He knew all too well.  
  
Then I will tell Beka you have accepted her offer. Rev bowed, and turned to leave.  
  
Harper watched him go through misty, burning eyes; unable to take them away from the Magog, the strange and contradictory creature, that had carried him.  
  
**Author's Note: **Well, so ends the story of how Harper came onboard, and joined the crew of the _Maru. _I hope you liked it!Watch this space for a follow-up that shows how another famous crew member came onboard!  
  



End file.
